


Laisse-moi Devenir L'ombre De Ton Ombre (Let Me Become the Shadow of Your Shadow)

by Chalenmimi, kittyandmulder, TheVagabondBoy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Breathplay, Buckys okay with it, Cannibalism, Character Death, Chef Steve, Choking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Corpse Desecration, Dark!Steve, Decapitation, Depends on how you look at it, Dismemberment, Dubious Consent, Exsanguination, Graphic Description of Corpses, Happy Ending, Knife Kink, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Murder, Needles, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Serial Killers, Sort Of, Stalking, Strangulation, Threats of Violence, Violence, actually he likes it, biting kink, bucky needs to find god, corpse mutilation, fear kink, graphic description of violence, he likes it way too much, he really likes it, or at the very least a therapist, syringes, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-04 08:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVagabondBoy/pseuds/TheVagabondBoy
Summary: Bucky became a CSI to help catch criminals, but here he is, hypnotized by the magic of The Artist, one of the most brutal, cruel, and meticulous serial killers he’s ever heard of. The Artist is just that, a goddamn artist. He takes people and turns them in the most beautiful art Bucky had ever laid eyes on.Then Bucky realizes that The Artist is leaving him messages.Messages! For Bucky!The Artist turns out to be everything Bucky thought he would be, and at the same time, so much more.Written by: TheVagabondBoyArt by: Chalenmimi, and kittyandmulder(Title from: Ne Me Quitte Pas, by Nina Simone)





	1. Amuse-bouche

**Author's Note:**

> OMG HERE IT IS, MY AU BANG FIC!! i cant believe the time is finally here, to start posting!!
> 
> Im not gonna drag out the notes here, so i'll make it quick!  
> Thanks to everyone in the slack for being super awesome since this whole event began, and for your support and help and the cheerleading!
> 
> Special thanks to [RCY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptydistractions/pseuds/emptydistractions), who was a wonderful, wonderful beta reader!
> 
> Massive, MASSIVE thank you to my artists, Chalenmimi and kittyandmulder!! There'll be individual credits on each piece of art, with links to the artists, so you'll always know what was made by who!! <3 <3
> 
> Last note: PLEASE read the tags and warnings closely, because this is not a fic that should be taken on lightly. It is SUPER dark, violent, gory, and sexual, and I seriously advise approaching it with caution.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Amuse-bouche](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/05YQV7769cqRG6MyA2L712?si=7yomy3gBQjuapA7RwpBKdg)

The Artist was one of a kind.

He was...ingenious. _Brilliant._  Magical, somehow.

Bucky could stare at the pictures for forever. They took his breath away.

The way he mutilated the bodies, the way he posed them, the way he made _art_  with them... Bucky couldn’t believe it was real. And yet there he was, staring at the photos.

Bucky loved his job.

This wasn’t _why_  he had become a CSI. Not _really._  He had become a CSI to help people and serve justice. But there he was, feeling an indescribable high whenever he looked at a murder. It was amazing. If he could, he would’ve stayed at each crime scene for hours upon hours, just taking it all in, absorbing it, _basking_  in it.

There was something so magical about them, the bodies.

He just couldn’t comprehend it! This corpse, this body, had been _alive!_  It had been just like him, living, breathing, _alive,_  and now? Now it wasn’t anymore. Now it was a lifeless husk with ashy skin and glassy eyes and an icy touch. He was enthralled by it. He couldn’t put it into words really. It was just...magical.

He was curious. He wondered what it would be like to be the one who made them like that; who moved them from living to...well, to whatever came after that. He wondered what it would _feel_  like to put his hands around someone’s throat and just _squeeze._  Or to put a knife through someone’s gut, or cut their throat, or beat them, or... The curiosity made his skin itch. He wanted to know. He wanted to _know._

_“James!”_

Bucky looked up from his laptop. Natasha was standing in the doorway.

“What’s up?” he asked.

She held up her phone, conveying that she had received a call. “Body dropped. Looks like The Artist’s work but they’re not sure. They need you to confirm it.”

Bucky’s heart jumped up into his throat. His body pulsed with excitement. _God, yes!_  It had been a month since the last one. Bucky had been eagerly awaiting this month’s show.

“Got it! I’ll meet ya in the garage.” he told the detective, locking down his computer and getting up from his desk.

She nodded and hurried away to find her partner.

Another body, maybe The Artist’s work. He’d know as soon as he saw it. He knew The Artist’s work like the back of his hand. For that, the PD top bosses had made him lead CSI on any and all cases believed to be The Artist. He loved his job.

Bucky packed up his kit and got moving. He knew Clint and Natasha would already be waiting for him.

*

The crime scene was a lacrosse field behind a high school.

The whole stadium - not that it was really much of a _stadium_  - had been cordoned off. Concerned citizens gathered all along the tape; uniformed officers stood on guard, keeping them back. Officers parted the crowd when they saw Clint and Natasha walking up. They lifted the tape for the detectives and Bucky slinked in alongside them.

“So whatcha got?” Clint asked the officer who lead the way to the body.

The officer looked...nauseous. “It’s not good.” he said. “It’s...three of them. All male, late teens. The clothes, uniforms, made us think they were on the lacrosse team. Managed to ID ‘em through a team roster.”

The cop pulled a small notebook out of his pocket, flipping it open.

“Jonathan Anton, he’s the team captain. Benjamin Harmon’s a goalie. Bailey Locke is a forward. Might mean somethin’, if it’s The Artist, but...I dunno. He... He made effigies of them.”

Bucky’s blood sang. It already sounded amazing. He couldn’t wait to see them. He put on his most neutral expression, perhaps sprinkling in some disgust. It wasn’t unheard of that The Artist would leave multiple bodies at once, but it was certainly _rare._

“You’ve walled off the scene, right?” Bucky questioned, struggling slightly with the case of equipment he was dragging along. “No press?”

“Yeah, we put up the tarps thirty feet back from the scene,” the officer informed.

They stepped onto the field. The officer stopped at its very edge, refusing to go any further. Bucky ignored both him and the detectives. He kept moving towards the tarps, which were mounted up like walls to hide the horror of the scene. Bucky had to show his CSI badge to be allowed past them. Of course, he stopped to put on his protective gear before stepping inside: the plastic suit, the head cover, the shoe covers, and at last, his gloves.

He kept his eyes low as he stepped inside. He didn’t want to look yet. He kept his head turned away. He set his case aside, and his camera bag, and took a deep breath.

He turned around and let his eyes land on the scene.

_He was breathless._

_It was amazing._

_It was beyond what he could have expected, better than he could have hoped._

The first: male, late teens, Caucasian, the number one carved into his forehead.

He was standing, propped up using bamboo sticks and steel wire. His arms were raised above his head; in one hand he had his lacrosse helmet, and in the other he had his lacrosse stick. It seemed like a victory pose. His face was moulded into a smile, kept so with staples and stitches. The boy was celebrating.

The second: male, late teens, African-American, the number two carved into his forehead.

He was on his knees. Bamboo sticks were stuck into the earth, crossing behind the boy’s back, keeping him propped up. His lacrosse stick had been...shoved down his throat. The majority of the stick had been forced into his mouth, down his throat, no doubt heavily damaging his internal organs. His helmet lay on the ground before him.

The third: male, late teens, Caucasian, the number three carved into his forehead.

He was on his knees as well. His lacrosse stick had been driven through his chest. It was all that propped him up. The net was all that remained through the front of his chest. A lacrosse ball lay in the net. Had he gotten the stick through by force alone? His face was also posed; made up as though he was wailing in pain. Interesting.

What did the scene mean? What was The Artist conveying?

Bucky grabbed his camera. The spotlights bathed the scene in an eerie light as he snapped the photos.

“Is it him?” Clint asked from somewhere behind Bucky.

His voice was distant. It sounded like he stood just at the entrance to the scene, careful not to step further until Bucky gave the green light.

“I believe so, but I need some more time.” Bucky said, not bothering to turn. “The _feel_  of it says it’s him. But since every scene’s so different, it’s hard to say from first glance. I should be able to confirm pretty quick, though. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“’Kay. Call for us when you’re ready.”

Bucky didn’t bother replying and Clint didn’t seem to mind.

Bucky had lied.

It was The Artist. _Of course_  it was The Artist. He knew it as soon as he laid eyes on the bodies. It was like they were speaking to him, screaming at him who had killed them. Bucky just wanted some more alone time with the scene before the detectives came barging in.

He wondered what The Artist took this time. Which body part had he absconded with before setting his scene? Livers? Lungs? Hearts? Intestines? Bucky could hardly wait to hear from the medical examiners. They still wondered what he did with what he took. Were they merely trophies? Or was he doing something with them? Bucky’s personal suspicions were...titillating.

If only he could have _one_  conversation with The Artist... Just one talk. Ten minutes to get answers to his questions, to sate his curiosity.


	2. Aperitif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Aperitif](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/1DMEo8NY3N88HKYpjaxlXE?si=8Dh_A4l0TzeDa6TKpnr6Xw)

“Have you pulled a winner yet?” Steve asked.

Sam hummed, not looking up from the carrots he was cutting. “Yup. Table ten, the lady in the blue blouse,” he said with a smile.

Steve smiled too. “Alright, I’ll get started on her dish,” he said and headed to the freezer.

He moved through the busy kitchen with ease, weaving through the crowd of chefs like a shadow. He stepped into the walk-in freezer and was careful to close the door behind him.

His personal stock was in the far back. He, and only he, was allowed to touch the wares and items there. They were reserved for use in the Chef’s lottery.

It was their _niche,_  he supposed.

It was a special event, occurring twice per week on random days. From the list of reservations for the night, the staff would pull a name. Out of the places at the chosen table, they would select one seat at random. Whomever sat in the chosen seat would receive a dish prepared by Steve Rogers himself, head chef and owner of the restaurant. This dish would not be anything that was on the menu. Steve would pluck a recipe out of thin air, prepare it, and serve it. It could be anything at all.

Steve was quite proud of that idea.

He searched the back shelves. What would he serve tonight? Hm, he did want to get rid of those lungs, that was a possibility. It was a little late in the evening to start making sausages, so that was a no-go for tonight. He had a good set of ribs. Maybe he could do something with those? No, no, no, he knew what he would make!

Fegatelli. Liver skewers.

It was perfect. He had harvested a nice, tender liver just two nights ago. Yes, those lacrosse players had had _beautiful_  organs. He had taken a liver, a tongue, and a good portion of intestines. Oh, he could use those perfect intestines to make those sausages tomorrow. That would be a good way to clear out his stocks a little, free up some room.

He selected the freshest liver - the lacrosse player’s - and a slightly older stomach, then left the freezer.

“So, whatcha makin’?” Sam asked cheerily as Steve returned to his station.

“Liver skewers,” Steve informed. “Could you run and grab me a couple potatoes, and cut ‘em up for hasselbacks?”

“Yes, chef!” Sam said, throwing a playful wink at his boss.

Steve snorted and shook his head. Sam was always teasing him for that.

*

The restaurant silenced almost immediately, as Steve stepped out of the kitchen with his dish. Everyone looked up, barely containing their excitement. They all wished to be the one chosen.

Steve had his target in sight.

The whole table  lit up like a Christmas tree when he approached. He set the plate down before the woman in blue. Her company went _green_  with envy.

“Liver skewers, Tuscany style, with hasselback potatoes and a red wine sauce,” he informed. “With my compliments. Please, enjoy.”

“It looks amazing,” the woman said, awed.

As was the established custom, he would stay for the first bite.

She picked up her knife and fork. The meat was perfectly cooked; it all but fell to pieces as her knife touched it. The luscious aroma of his careful spicing filled the air. She cut a portion of the potatoes as well. She took both it and the meat onto her fork, touching them only very gently to the blood red sauce.

Steve’s heart pounded.

She put it to her mouth, and she moaned at the taste, as though she had never eaten anything better in her life.

“Enjoy,” Steve said again, smiling. He offered a polite bow then moved back to the kitchen.

“I’ll be in the office,” he told the staff there, as always.

“Yes, chef!” they acknowledged in a chorus.

He stepped into the small office in the very back of the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and closed the blinds. The staff all knew by then that he preferred as much privacy as he could get when he was looking over their menus and accounts. That’s what he had told them, anyway.

In truth, he always needed a moment to collect himself after something like that. It was just so incredible. Such a rush. To watch someone _eat_  part of someone else without even knowing it... God, it was like a drug to him. Like the act of taking a life, watching someone eat part of that life was an awe-inspiring experience. He had done it a hundred times and yet it still touched him in that same way as it had the first time.

Oh, God, _the first time..._

He had taken meat from a soft-skinned young woman and minced it; he had made it into patties and served them as burgers to his friends. They had all fawned over him, begged him for the recipe. All the while, he was having an almost religious experience watching them consume the life he had taken. That was years ago now, and Sam still brought up those burgers from time to time, to pester Steve for another taste.

Steve had to recline his seat back as far as he could, close his eyes, and focus on his breathing to keep himself from exploding.

He hoped his fan found his messages soon. Steve was getting impatient. He couldn’t wait to speak with James.


	3. Hors d’eouvre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Hors d’eouvre](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/4FHXss0zZPygA8NZH4RAYs?si=Oe4B4gspS-SvmyJmo3PVxw)

Bucky studied the autopsy reports. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected.

The first boy; his face was stapled and stitched into a grin _while he was alive._  His gut had been carved open like a pig at slaughter, a classic signature of The Artist’s. His intestines had been removed. The helmet and stick had been grafted to his hands with more staples and steel wire. The wires had left nasty marks on his skin.

The second boy; the same wire bruises. His tongue had been removed. The Artist had opened the boy’s throat and severed the tongue there, then carefully removed it, and stitched his throat closed again. The boy’s windpipe and esophagus had been practically ripped to shreds as the lacrosse stick was forced down his throat.

The third boy; the sternum had been almost completely crushed, likely with a tenderizing mallet. This was also done while he was alive. It seemed as though these injuries were the cause of death. After the sternum was broken down, he had been repeatedly stabbed in the chest, carving out the hole the stick would pass through. Upon investigation, they saw his liver had been removed.

The numbers on their foreheads were carved in post mortem, likely just before they were posed.

Bucky wondered what The Artist did with the parts he took from his victims. The intestines, the tongue, the liver. Everyone wondered. A multitude of theories floated around; everyone had their own ideas about it.

Personally, Bucky suspected The Artist _ate_  them.

Why he would be eating them, Bucky couldn’t quite say yet. Whether it was simply a matter of enjoying the taste, or if there was some kind of deeper meaning to it - he hadn’t found enough evidence either way. He hoped to know one day. There was a lot about The Artist he would like to know.

He looked at the photos he had taken of the scene.

The magic of it was...diminished. It was nothing against the real thing. Standing on the field, staring at the scene in real life, _that_  had been magical. This was a pale comparison. Sadly, he would have to get by with just the pictures, despite how badly he wished he could preserve the scene in all its true glory.

Bucky saw the symbolism in the scene now. The first victim, the boy posed as victorious, was the team captain. He stood above the other two, a superior figure. The other two kneeled before him, subservient. _Interesting._

Was the first victim an image of The Artist? Was he showing himself superior over the police, represented by the other two boys? Or was he trying to stand above _other_  serial killers? Telling them he was the biggest, the baddest, the best...

Bucky laid the files out on his desk. He spread out the photos he’d printed.

God, he _loved_  The Artist. His passion for his craft was admirable. Bucky would give anything to watch The Artist work.

He opened his journal and flipped through the pages until he found his list. His fingers ran down the names. The Artist’s victims... He checked the files. He copied the names of the boys down, in order of the numbers The Artist had given them.

 

_Jonathan Anton_

_Benjamin Harmon_

_Bailey Locke_

 

Hm, interesting. The first letters of their names matched up to Bucky’s own initials. Strange. He wondered if that was intentional somehow. He could dream all he liked, he supposed, but it was _highly_  unlikely that The Artist even knew he existed.

But it was an interesting thought.

Everything The Artist did had a purpose, was part of a plan. He didn’t do coincidences and accidents.

Bucky flipped back through the pages to very start of the list. He ran his finger down the names, searching for familiar letter combinations hidden there.

For page after page, there was nothing. An unintelligible mess of letters.

Then...

 

_Jane_

_Aaron_

_Michelle_

_Eric_

_Samuel_

 

James.

Then just a few names later...

 

_Balthazar_

_Umberto_

_Clark_

_Kara_

_Ysolde_

 

Bucky.

His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. He couldn’t believe this. Was The Artist actually leaving notes for him? Sending him messages? _To Bucky?_  How did he even know Bucky existed?

Well...maybe it wasn’t _that_  strange, now that he thought about it. If The Artist was following the press, he would’ve seen Bucky’s name a few times. The papers had been in an uproar for a while, when people started claiming he was the foremost expert on the case of The Artist. Bucky had even been made by his superiors to give _interviews!_  Perhaps that lead to The Artist feeling some kind of connection to Bucky. In the way of, if Bucky was so deeply knowledgeable of The Artist’s work then Bucky _must_  be the same as him. Perhaps he thought Bucky would sympathize with him.

He would be right.

Bucky kept going. The curiosity itched in his brain. He wanted to know and understand why The Artist was doing this, leaving messages for Bucky. He wondered if there were more, what they would say, what would they tell him about The Artist, what did they mean.

 

_James_

_Adam_

_Myra_

_Ellen_

_Sandra_

 

_Joanna_

_Aegon_

_Miles_

_Erin_

_Sara_

_John_

_André_

_Milo_

_Emilé_

_Savannah_

James, three times in a row. How had no one noticed this before? How had _Bucky_  not noticed this before?

The Artist was good at hiding his patterns. He was probably even smarter than they had thought he was. Yes, they knew he had to be intelligent to commit such perfect, brutal crimes, but this... It went far beyond expectations.

How had they been so blind?

He had to keep going. There had to be more. More messages, something more, some clue to how to find him.

*

_Finn_  
_Ian_  
_Noah_  
_Daniel_

_Maya_  
_Everett_

 

Find me.

 

_Hannah_  
_Eliza_  
_Raoul_  
_Elizabeth_  
  
_Isabelle_  
  
_Amanda_  
_Michael_

 

Here I am.

 

_Bo_  
_Ezra_  
_Holly_  
_India_  
_Nadya_  
_Danielle_  
  
_Yang_  
_Oliver_  
_Uriel_

 

Behind you.

 

_Find me. Here I am. Behind you._

__

_(Art by[kittyandmulder)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906963/chapters/42275576)_

 

There came a chill down Bucky’s spine. Was The Artist watching him? Following him? This was... It was incredible. The Artist was leaving these messages for him, telling him he knew who Bucky was, that he was watching Bucky.

Bucky’s heart pounded like crazy. This was beyond his wildest dreams. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

He wanted to send a message back. He wanted to reply! He wanted to tell The Artist that he had finally noticed it, finally _seen_  it, that he knew now. He wanted The Artist to know that he knew. Fuck, he could hardly breathe, this was perfection. He had to figure something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittyandmulder:
> 
> [tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)
> 
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)


	4. Buffet Froid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Buffet Froid](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/39EePN0YQhiRIyAy0nTnLD?si=9JHJmtOqR3ayQJlhk3zW1A)

Bucky watched everyone around him as he moved through the grocery store. He wondered if The Artist was there, if he was watching. Which one was he? Which of these people was this marvellous genius?

He shuffled through the canned goods aisle. He didn’t even notice what he picked off the shelves. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He just wanted to know who was watching him.

Him? The tall, dark-skinned man with soft eyes, deciding between two brands of canned beans?

Him, in the next aisle? Talking to a small child, calling her _Peanut,_  arguing playfully about alphabet pasta?

Maybe him? The big, buff blond judging the vegetable section with an undeniably soft eye?

Or that brunette woman maybe? Perhaps _her?_  She glared at the selection of noodles like she wanted to set them all on fire.

This was pointless.

Bucky set his shopping basket down and left the store.

*

He walked slower than he usually did.

He stayed close to the windows of the stores he passed, using the reflection to look behind his own back, watching the crowd behind him.

There was no one there. No one worth noticing, at least. Everyone was too occupied with their own little worlds to notice Bucky.

He almost tripped over his own feet when he spotted the blond again. The man from the grocery store, the one by the vegetables. Three days had passed since then, but Bucky recognized him right away. He’d recognize those soft, kind eyes anywhere, even after just such a short glance.

Or no, the eyes were anything but kind.

Bucky could almost feel those eyes on his neck. Staring. Glaring. Studying. He felt like _prey._  He felt like he was being sized up by a hunter readying his shot. It felt as though at any moment he would be pounced on and his throat would be ripped out by a wild beast, then his body dragged back to a secret den and slowly consumed over days, weeks, until there was nothing left of him to find.

His stomach bubbled, his blood rushed. The emotions twisted and turned in his head; they confused him. The fear chilled his bones, the excitement electrified his skin, the roaring fire in his veins made it hard to breathe. Fuck, that heat poured over his body. But it came to a sudden halt at his crotch.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Fuck!_  God, why did this fear make him so fucking horny?

If that blond was The Artist, then Bucky would gladly submit and die for him. _Let him do whatever he wanted to him._  Bucky would so happily allow it and smile while it was happening.

As if reading Bucky’s mind, the blond smiled and turned a corner, abandoning the CSI’s path.

Bucky stopped. He almost collapsed against the nearest solid object. He clutched his chest. His heart raced. He couldn’t see straight, think straight.

Was that The Artist? Was that him? Had he been _that_  close? Mere _feet_  away from Bucky...

_Holy fuck._

Bucky hailed a cab and went home. He needed to jerk off and think about those eyes and that smile while he was doing it. Even if that wasn’t The Artist, Bucky would die for him.

*

It had to be the blond. He had to be The Artist. It couldn’t be anyone else.

No matter where Bucky turned, the blond was there. He was everywhere. He was everywhere all at once. It made Bucky’s skin itch and his heart race and his blood boil. He could feel those blue eyes on him wherever he went.

It frayed his nerves.

It scared him, it turned him on.

Every time he saw that smile, a red-hot heat bloomed between his legs. It made him so fucking hot, so hungry. He fucked himself every night, thinking about the eyes and the smile and the hands that had killed so many and done so many horrible things, he wanted to feel them on his body.

The Artist, the blond, he knew what he was doing to Bucky, too.

He was inching closer every day.

He started out fifteen feet back, or further, watching from a distance. Now he was barely three, four feet away. Bucky could swear he could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck. He wanted to hear his voice, hear it whisper cruel, dirty, nasty, sick things in his ear. Every time Bucky looked over his shoulder, the blonde was right there, smiling and meeting his eyes. Every time, Bucky’s heart skipped a beat.

*

He had a plan this time.

He had packed his backpack in preparation.

He moved according to his usual pattern.

Bucky left home at seven AM. He moved through the city. He stopped for coffee and a bagel. He saw the blond reading the paper in the coffee shop, waiting for Bucky. When Bucky was leaving, the blond folded up his newspaper, finished his coffee, and followed.

Bucky walked his usual path, passing by the precinct.

He passed by the precinct.

He heard the blond’s footfalls stagger slightly, as if thrown off his rhythm. He hadn’t expected that. Bucky hadn’t received any calls or texts, so he would know Bucky wasn’t going to a crime scene. He had learned Bucky’s patterns, his habits, and he would know that this was not part of them. Bucky had managed to surprise him, even if it was in a small way.

Bucky could swear he heard the blond chuckle behind him. He was amused. Bucky smiled.

There was an event not far from the precinct, a store opening for business. It wasn’t a big thing but it was large enough to attract a crowd. Bucky pushed his way into the crowd, melting into the blur they made. He hunched himself over, sinking slightly, lowering his head. He could see the blond in the crowd too. He was looking around almost frantically in search of Bucky.

Bucky had managed to lose him. Perfect.

Bucky shrugged off his backpack and got himself to the edge of the crowd. He put his hair up quickly, hiding it under a black knitted hat. He removed his jacket and shoved it in his bag, then put on a hoodie instead. He put on a pair of his old glasses.

When he stood up straight again, the blonde didn’t see him. He was looking for Bucky, not for this different person he had so easily disguised himself as.

The tables turned.

Bucky watched him.

The blond gave up on it, resigning himself to having lost Bucky in the crowd, with a huff. He stomped out of the store, shoving his way through the crowd in his anger. Bucky followed.

He kept his head down. He stayed at a distance; he didn’t want to get too close.

The blond didn’t notice him. He was aware of his surroundings, yes, that was a given, but he hadn’t expected to be the one to be followed. He wasn’t looking out for the signs of a tail.

The cab driver looked at Bucky weird when Bucky told him to _follow that cab,_  but he acquiesced when Bucky offered him a tip of two hundred dollars.

The drive ended in Brooklyn.

When the blond’s cab stopped, Bucky told his driver to keep going. They stopped around the corner. Bucky changed again. He put on a blue baseball cap and sunglasses, after removing the hoodie and replacing it with a white button-up. He paid the driver, plus the outrageous tip, and hopped out.

He rounded the corner.

He moved towards the blond, walking in the opposite direction. They would pass each other in just a moment.

Bucky stopped. He sank to one knee and fiddled with his shoelace.

The blond ignored him, passed him without comment.

Bucky looked over his shoulder, watching the blond.

The man walked up the stairs of a brownstone. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Bucky could finally breathe. He had followed The Artist to his home.

He couldn’t believe it. He was...dumb-founded. He had found The Artist _and_  his home! This was beyond words. He couldn’t describe the amazing, burning feeling in his chest. He did it. He actually did it.

The fear pounded in his head. His heart raced, his breaths were short and shallow.

Bucky took note of the address. When he got to work, he’d look it up.

Then, he’d know The Artist’s name too.


	5. Potage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Potage](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/0y05CTWZWlbgAxPmEtWev7?si=yciiE3cQRvCzH1soXjVq1Q)

Steven Grant Rogers.

That was his name. That was The Artist’s name. His name was Steven. __Steve.__  He was a chef. _A chef,_  of all things. Maybe Bucky was right, then; maybe he _was_  eating them. He had a restaurant. A pretty well-known one, at that. One of those places where you had to be on a waiting list for months to get a table.

He found himself compelled to know more. He _needed_  to know more. He knew The Artist; now he needed to know _Steve._

Thirty-one years old... That meant he’d dropped his first body as The Artist when he was only twenty-one. Roughly one body per month for ten years. That was _a lot_  of bodies. A lot of _meat._  Enough to feed a lot of people.

Was he... No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be _that_  bold, would he? He couldn’t be.

It was an interesting thought, though. Feeding his victims to his customers...

Maybe Bucky would go out and have a nice dinner.

*

He decided against visiting Steve’s restaurant. Not yet, at least. He had to work up the courage for that, for actually meeting his idol face to face.

He’d start with something simpler.

He was going to break into Steve’s house.

He wasn’t going to _do_  anything there. He would just be, y’know, taking a look around and learning a little more about the man, the myth, the legend. Steve wouldn’t even know Bucky had been there.

God, just the thought of standing in Steve’s home... It did _things_  to him.

He could imagine it now. Walking through Steve’s house, running his fingers along the walls, smelling Steve’s scent ingrained in the space, sitting on his couch, laying on his bed, looking through his closet. There would be so much to see and look at and take in. Fuck, it got his heart racing, his blood pumping and pulsing. He could feel the adrenaline rush through him at the mere thought of being so bold.

It felt like the room was two-hundred degrees. A cold sweat rolled down his back. The arousal twisted his gut. He shifted in his seat, hoping to accommodate his growing _problem._  He might be working from home today but he still had to actually _work._  He could jerk off to his heart’s content _after_  he was done.

But the more he tried to focus on his work, the more the picture of Steve on his restaurant’s website called to him.

He was deceptive. His kind eyes and bright smile made him seem safe and soft. The man in that photo _was_  and _was not_  the same man stalking Bucky. It was the same face, but twisted somehow. The _‘safe’_  look was wrong on him. It didn’t fit. The look Bucky remembered seeing fit better. The eyes sharp as a butcher’s blades, the smile hungry like a starving man. He had looked at Bucky like prey, like a piece of meat.

Fuck, he pictured Steve’s mouth on him, on his body, on his skin. Biting into his flesh, whether to feed on him or just leave his mark, it didn’t matter to Bucky. He’d be alright with either.

He rubbed at his crotch. His cock was so hard it almost ached. His body pleaded with him for release.

He pulled up the folder of crime scene photos. He had thousands of pictures of Steve’s work. He scrolled through them slowly, the picture of the man himself just beside that window.

Bucky shoved his sweatpants down to his thighs. His cock was red and swollen from neglect, the head leaking precum. His skin burned. He spat into his hand and wrapped it around his cock. _Fuck, oh, God._

He stroked himself slowly, keeping his grip tight and rough. He stopped flipping through the pictures. His eyes fixed on the scene, he remembered that one vividly. He moaned at the thought and the feeling of his hand on his cock.

It was an Asian woman in her forties; she was impaled on a wooden spike, her insides spilling out as if having exploded out of her. _Yes, fuck, he fucked into his fist, clawing at the desk, moaning again._  A bed of wild-flowers surrounded the base of the spike, spreading out around it. Her naked body was pale and ashy, blood dried into her skin. Neither those things were real. She had been carefully painted that way. The ashy tone was a light gray, the blood was a stark red. Tears had been painted down her cheeks, a bright baby blue. She was breathtaking. Bucky hadn’t stopped staring at his photos of her for _days_  after he took them.

He palmed at his balls. He spit into his other hand too, wetting his fingers. He slid his chair back and got his feet up on the edge of the desk. He stroked himself faster; his fingers pressed against his hole. He gasped for air as they teased inside him. Fuck, he could feel it coming, it was building in his gut.

He pictured himself with Steve, in Steve’s house. Sitting in the kitchen, Steve serving dinner, meat with questionable origins. He could almost taste it. He could almost feel Steve’s eyes on him, how he would watch him as he tasted it.

Bucky groaned as he came, gasping for air to enter his shivering body. The cum ran down his fingers; it made awkward stains on his sweats. His head was spinning, a confused, hungry bliss drowning out the world.

He sat for a moment and tried to catch his breath.


	6. Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Fish](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/5TWwpJw6xRa28wjUF3DVY3?si=oQc4IBQ6S-u3_tqwZpwZww)

The door unlocked easily. Bucky wiggled his lock-picks free, sliding them back into his kit. He tugged on the hems of his gloves, almost a nervous tick, and flexed his hands inside them.

He turned the knob, letting the door open slowly. He stared into the vestibule of the brownstone. It was quite plain and simple, nothing extraordinary. The door opened into a long hallway, at the end of which there was a set of stairs leading up. Bucky could see the living room on his right, through the archway that divided it from the hallway. Further in through the living room, he spied a dining room and past it, the kitchen.

He stood stock-still on the threshold.

He could still turn back. It wasn’t too late. He could save himself. He could turn around and leave and call Natasha, tell her he had found The Artist. Show her the messages Steve had left for him, tell her he had noticed Steve following him and turned the tables and managed to follow _Steve_  right back to his home.

Bucky took a deep breath. He stepped over the threshold.

He closed the door softly behind himself. He had an urge to run his hands through his hair, another nervous tick, but stopped himself. He had already tied it back in a tight bun to keep from tainting the scene by shedding. His shoe coverings rustled as he walked. The noise got on his nerves but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He tried to ignore it.

Bucky’s fingers ran along the wall as he moved down the hallway, just like he had imagined. The place smelled crisp and clean. Traces of cooking filled the air as well; the smell of wine and spices, smoky aromas clinging to the walls.

He stepped through the archway to the living room. It looked...comfortable. It looked like a home. There was art up on all the walls; paintings, photographs, detailed sketches. Bucky stopped. He recognized one of those sketches. That... It reminded him of one of The Artist’s scenes, from quite a while back. _Interesting._  Did he sketch them out before ‘performing’ them? It was bold to display one of those sketches like this.

Bucky raised his camera and took a picture of the sketch. He turned and continued to catalogue the entire room in photos.

He sat down on the couch once he was finished. The couch was plush and soft, he really sank into the cushions. Hm, he liked this couch. It was comfortable. He leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table.

He moved on. The dining room was stylishly undecorated. A long table, and the chairs around it, took up the space, filling it somehow with their presence. Bucky sat down at the head of the table. He could imagine Steve having a dinner party here, sitting just where Bucky sat right then, serving people to people. He documented the room then moved on.

God, the kitchen... It took his breath away. He could feel Steve’s presence there. The kitchen was modern, recently renovated. Everything was spotless; immaculately clean. He pictured Steve there, at the stove, handling the knives Bucky found in one of the drawers. He could almost smell the meat cooking and hear the wine corks popping.

The fridge was fully stocked. It certainly looked like it belonged to a chef. On the very bottom shelf, lay a handful of vacuum sealed packets of meat, labeled with which animal they came from and which part of said animal it was. Bucky wondered if those labels were being truthful. He was __oh,__  so tempted to chance it and steal one. He could take it home, do his best to cook it up alright, pretend it was made by Steve. He’d think about it.

He closed the fridge again and-


	7. Coquille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Coquille](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/5rhtRSXMFPk50aaAwpT3Uj?si=b7qb3u2LQ1atzfav5jeWPQ)

Bucky groaned. _Fuck,_  his head was pounding. Why was it doing that? What happened?

He opened his eyes slowly.

Where was he? What was this place?

He lifted his head. _Ow,_  his neck hurt so bad. He was...in a chair. How’d he end up here? He tried to move but...he couldn’t. His wrists were tied to the chair. His ankles too. This place, it looked like a basement, maybe? Concrete floor and brick walls. The whole place was covered with plastic sheets. There was a fold-up table some feet ahead of Bucky, also covered in plastic, with tools laid out all prim and proper on it.

“Haven’t you heard breaking and entering is rude?”

Bucky all but jumped out of his skin. _“Jesus, shit!”_

Steve stepped around Bucky. Had he been standing behind Bucky this whole time?

What was he wearing? He had a plastic suit on to cover his clothes, similar to the ones Bucky had to wear at crime scenes sometimes. He had the whole kit; the suit, gloves, head cover, shoe covers, as well as a face mask and protective glasses. He was completely protected.

He carried a folding chair. He set the chair down in front of Bucky and took a seat, coming eye to eye with his prisoner.

“Well...” Bucky said. Fear and adrenaline made his heart race. He could barely breathe. “I d-didn’t break and enter so much as I... _unlawfully unlocked_  and entered."

Steve chuckled behind his mask. “I suppose you’re right on that. Still a crime, though. You should know better, James. You work for the police, after all.”

“Aw, shucks,” he huffed. “How ‘bout I just go turn myself in, then?”

“Honestly, I’d be happy to see you learn your lesson but I can’t take that risk,” the other man said. “Who knows what you might tell them?”

Bucky shrugged, wincing at the ache in his stiff shoulders. “Ain’t nothin’ to tell. What’s it they say? _Snitches end up in ditches?”_

Steve chuckled again. He watched Bucky for a moment. His eyes were sharp again. He could cut through Bucky with just those eyes.

“Don’t be silly, James. You’re too pretty to put in a ditch.”

He got up. He stepped over to his table of tools and picked up the sketch pad that lay there. He sat down again, beginning to flip through the pages slowly. Bucky wondered what amazing things he had drawn there. What dark scenes had his twisted mind thought up?

“You’re gonna be an anomaly, James.” Steve said. “I already made my scene this month but seeing as I can’t very well keep you locked in my basement until next month, we’ll have to make due with what we have.”

Bucky swallowed dryly.

“The first time I heard about you, you made me hungry. I wanted to eat you. _Consume you._  But the more I watched you, learned about you...the more I wanted to know you. Speak with you. _Your_  curiosity made _me_  curious. I suppose this isn’t a completely wasted opportunity. Good chance for us to have a nice lil’ chat before I dispose of you, don’t you think?”

Bucky exhaled a soft breath. He was right. Steve _was_  eating them.

“I was right,” he mumbled.

“What’s that, James?”

Bucky looked up.

Steve was leaning towards him, elbows on his knees, sharp eyes fixed intently on Bucky.

“I-I-I was right,” he said again. “I... I _thought_  you were eating your victims. I mean, the parts of them you took.”

The blond hummed. He leaned back again.

Bucky swallowed again. This whole thing made a lump the size of a brick in his throat. It was hard to breathe around it. The ropes burned his wrists and his ankles.

“You could let me go.”

Steve scoffed.

“No, really. I won’t say a word. I swear.”

The blond hummed, seemingly ignoring Bucky. He had stopped going through his sketches. Had he found one he thought would fit Bucky?

He got up again. He tossed the pad down on the table. Bucky watched. His heart raced faster and faster.

“Any last words? And no, screaming is no use.”

Steve picked up a blade.

Bucky didn’t care about dying; if he got to become _art,_  dying was all he wanted in life. But he didn’t want to die curious. He had so many questions. There were so many things he hadn’t been able to figure out, so many things he wondered.

“Just tell me,” he said finally, after a long moment of contemplation. “Are you a psychopath?”

He was surprised to see how the question made Steve freeze.

Steve turned around, tugging his mask down to sit under his chin.

“Excuse me?”

The cold sweat made Bucky shiver.

Bucky stared at him. Steve’s brows were tightly furrowed, the knife clutched in his right hand.

"It's just... Um, well, I don't think you're a psychopath. I think your scenes have too much emotion in them to be made by a psychopath. A psychopath might be able to _mimic_  emotion but they wouldn't be able to _feel them_  like your scenes tell me you do.”

His throat was dry as a desert. It felt like Steve had cut open his chest and closed his fist around Bucky’s lungs, squeezing them tight and making it completely impossible for him to inhale.

“My friend Natasha, she's a detective, she says you _have to_  be a psychopath to be able to do those things to people but I don't agree. Of course, I don't tell _her_  that.”

They stared into each other’s eyes. Bucky _wanted_  to look away. The darkness in Steve’s eyes scared him just as much as it made him _so fucking horny._

“I think your emotions are part of _why_  you do what you do. Killing gives you an emotion you can't find anywhere else and you take that emotion and you make art with it. _You turn people into art.”_

Steve’s eyes widened. Did he not realize how _incredible_  his work was to Bucky?

“And...I'm a fan. A big one. I know you probably won't believe me but _I love your work._  Coming to a scene and looking at your art...it gives _me_  an emotion I can't find anywhere else. Becoming your art, giving you that special emotion, it's like a dream come true. Do it. _Please,_  do it, and make me _spectacular.”_

The blond stared at him. The darkness in his eyes was gone. There was confusion instead; mild awe, perhaps.

“But before you do, tell me if you're a psychopath or not. Please?”

“I...”

Steve’s eyes fell to the floor, looking at his feet. His posture slackened. His shoulders sank.

“I don't know.”

He shuffled back to his chair and sat down.

“I don't...” he attempted meekly, removing his shower-cap-like head cover and his protective glasses. “I don't think I am?”

_“What?_ ” Bucky exclaimed, shocked. “You don't _know?”_

How did he _not know?_  Bucky would think that was something that would be pretty goddamn obvious!

_“I dunno!”_  Steve said, offended and scandalized. “Not like I can walk into a psychiatrist's office and be like _'hey, can you tell me if I'm a psychopath'?!”_

Bucky’s face contorted with disgust and confusion. “Most psychopaths _know_  they're psychopaths! Probably has somethin' to do with the whole, y'know, _not being able to feel emotions_  thing. Dontcha think, _Steven?!”_

"Oh, _I'm sorry,_  are you _sassing_  me, _James?”_  Steve questioned, making a controlled gesture at Bucky with the knife still in his hand. “Remind me, who's got who tied to a chair in a murder basement?”

The prisoner scoffed and snorted at him. “Oh, _please!_  I just told you I'm your biggest fanboy. You killing me would _literally_  be giving me everything I want outta the world. That makes you _not very scary.”_

God, Steve was fast. Bucky couldn’t believe how fast he moved.

In the blink of an eye, he was on Bucky. His hand was clamped over Bucky’s mouth and forcing his head back. The tip of the knife hovered above Bucky’s eye, Steve’s stone cold face right next to it.

“Is that so? Then maybe I should just do it.” the blond said, just over a whisper. “I have plenty of room in my freezer. You could feed me for a year. Maybe more, if I rationed. Wouldn’t that be funny? You disappear and so does The Artist? What would people think?”

(Art by [kittyandmulder)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906963/chapters/42275576)

 

Bucky could taste latex.

“Of course, I’d have to start again soon enough. When you _run out.”_

He stared up at the blade. It shone in the low light.

“But I could do it different. Be different. Become someone else. The Artist would die with you, James. Doesn’t that sound _amazing?”_

Steve’s eyes shone too.

“I’d hate it that you got credit for my work but hey, as long as I get to _keep_  working, right?”

Bucky clutched at the armrests of the chair. The ropes burned his wrists.

He couldn’t help himself. The knife was _right there_  and Steve was so close and Bucky’s mind betrayed him. All he could think about was how it might feel when the knife cut his cheek. The blood seeping out, beading at his jaw, falling like rain onto his chest. What would Steve do then? Taste him? Keep cutting?

He whined under Steve’s hand. Steve stared at him.

“Do you... James, do you have an erection?”

Bucky shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittyandmulder:  
> [tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)  
> [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)


	8. Entrée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Entrée](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/5O8dTkHkJ3L2mK7cuavltp?si=U3HibJ8hQaKnw58rmixanQ)

Bucky stared into his coffee.

He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He was sitting in Steve Rogers’ kitchen, _The Artist’s kitchen._

Thankfully, his erection had... _settled._

Steve sat across from him at the kitchen table, sans protective murder outfit. Bucky could feel heavy eyes on himself.

“So, _James,_  you’re a fan,” he said.

Bucky sipped at his coffee. “B-Bucky’s fine. But yeah. I... I love your work. It’s... _magical.”_

“Can I ask which one is your favourite?”

The brunet scoffed. “Just one?”

“If you had to pick,” Steve said, his smile audible.

There were so many good ones. How to pick only one?

The first that came to mind was the Asian woman from a few days ago; the one Bucky had... _pleasured_  himself to (no, not his proudest moment). Then, of course, there was the Swordsmen. That was _among_  his favourites, he could easily say. Two men engaged in battle, the image frozen just as one man’s sword pierced the chest of the other. There were easily _twenty_  more that flooded his mind, though. There were so many to choose from, so many amazing, incredible masterpieces. It was impossible to choose just _one._

“I... I can’t pick,” he said and dared to lift his eyes to Steve’s face. “They’re all just...perfect.”

There was a warm smile on the man’s lips. “Well, it’s good to hear my work is appreciated.”

Bucky nodded. “It is. Really. I love it. I’ve...dreamt about meeting you for years.”

“I’m flattered, Bucky,” Steve said. “Really, I am. It’s...strange not to be recognized for your work. I mean, my work is illegal and I’d go to prison for several lifetimes if I was caught, but it’d be nice to have my hard work acknowledged.”

Bucky hummed. “I wish more people could see it.”

“You and me both.”

They both chuckled at that. Steve sipped his coffee. Bucky tried not to stare at him.

It was quiet.

There was an electric tension in the air. Bucky couldn’t say what kind of tension it was; _sexual,_  or that between hunter and prey. Perhaps both.

Bucky felt small. He felt infinitesimal when sitting before Steve like this. At any moment, Steve could pounce and kill him, and Bucky wouldn’t even have time to react. Steve was a wild animal hiding behind the mask of a human face. It was dangerous.

“Are you gonna let me go?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Bucky lifted his cup to drink but saw it was empty. He got up and shuffled over to the coffee maker.

“Can... Can I ask, what do people taste like?” he questioned as he refilled his cup.

“Like meat. Sorta like deer but less gamy, and at the same time, sorta like pork but...fuller. _Juicier._  Come to my restaurant and maybe I’ll cook someone for you.”

Bucky drank deep, ignoring the slight burn of the hot coffee in his mouth.

“Is it a date?” he asked, lowering the cup again.

“Would you like it to be a date?”

He held the cup so tightly he almost feared it would break to pieces in his hands.

_“Yes.”_

His voice was choked, as if he was trying to speak with two hands wrapped around his throat.

“Then it’s a date.”

The voice was right beside his ear. He gasped softly. His whole body chilled, a cold mix of complete terror and mind-bending arousal.

He could hear Steve inhale a deep breath.

“You smell...perfect,” he whispered in Bucky’s ear. “I wonder how you taste.”

A shaking breath entered Bucky with quite some trouble. Remembering to breathe seemed to be the most difficult thing in the world.

“Can I taste you?”

Bucky swallowed around the brick in his throat again.

He nodded.

Bucky moaned as he felt Steve’s teeth graze his shoulder. Fuck, were everyone’s teeth _that_ sharp? They felt _strangely_  pointed, as if made solely to bite into flesh.

Arms wrapped around Bucky, pulling him close to Steve’s body, his chest to the other man’s back. He could _feel_  Steve’s heartbeat pounding against his spine as he clawed at the counter. His head fell back, exposing more skin. The blond’s mouth moved along his shoulder. Another raspy groan left the brunet as Steve bit him.

Fuck, his cock ached as all the blood rushed to his crotch.

Steve was so close, his body was _so close._  He was pressed fully against Bucky, and yet Bucky _needed_  him _closer._  He needed Steve inside him and to be inside Steve, in any and all ways.

He could feel the skin breaking as Steve bit down hard on his neck and his shoulder. There’d be imprints of teeth, that was obvious. They’d be hard to hide but Bucky really didn’t care. He wasn’t sure what was trickling down his chest, blood or saliva.

(Art by [kittyandmulder)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906963/chapters/42275576)

 

Steve’s hands were perfection. They worked deftly, without hesitation, without stumbling over themselves. His skilled fingers easily undid Bucky’s belt and slipped into his boxers. Bucky gripped at Steve’s wrist, searching needily for something to hold onto as Steve stroked him. Steve’s other hand went under Bucky’s shirt; his nails were like claws. They ripped across Bucky’s chest. He shivered under them. It felt like skin was breaking but God, he couldn’t say for sure.

_“Fuck...”_  Bucky whined.

Bucky _needed_  it.

“Shit, _ah..._  Wait, I want-“

Steve tore his mouth away from the bites on Bucky’s neck. _“Tell me,”_ he ordered, his voice making Bucky quiver as it sounded right in his ear, harsh and gravelly. “Tell me what you want.”

Bucky whined again, face burning with shame. “The- _fuck,_  the basement. Can we- in the basement?”

Steve twisted his wrist, his thumb sliding across the head of Bucky’s cock, and chuckled darkly.

“You wanna fuck in the basement, Bucky? You want me to fuck you right there, right where I put _them?_  Where I make art? You wanna be my art?”

The claws on his chest dug deeper. _“Yes!”_

_“Beg.”_

“Please! Please make me into art! _I wanna be art!”_

Steve bit into his neck again and Bucky cried out. Claws tore across his chest.

Then Steve removed his hands from Bucky’s body and detached his mouth from his neck. Bucky staggered against the kitchen counter, struggling to suck in a steady breath, as Steve stepped over to the sink. He watched, confused, as the blond washed his hands and cleaned Bucky’s blood from his mouth.

“As much as I’d love to, I’m needed at the restaurant,” Steve said. “Big private party. A four course meal for seventy people? Got a lotta prep work left to do.”

Bucky panted. “Wh- What?”

Steve dried his hands on a towel. “You should get your things and get going,” he said. “I’m sure you can see yourself out.”

Bucky stared at him.

Steve hung the towel back on its hook and then walked out of the kitchen. After a few moments, Bucky heard him move up the stairs.

What just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittyandmulder:  
> [tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)  
> [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)


	9. Trou Normand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Trou Normand](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/1Q0t1UjdKLJabGUErOUN6q?si=V1F1fb72QzGGSTUaxnex1w)

Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about Steve.

It kept swirling around in his head; the feeling of Steve’s body again his, his sharp teeth biting into Bucky’s shoulder. The marks on his shoulder still ached a little. After he got home from Steve’s place, he had realized Steve had left quite a few signatures on his body. Nasty circles of teeth covered Bucky’s right shoulder, sneaking up the side of his neck. Bucky had to make it a habit of wearing scarves or something, to cover those marks.

Or he could just say he met a guy with a biting kink.

_“James!”_

Bucky looked up. Natasha stood on the other side of his desk, looking down at him. He must’ve been lost in his head.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry,” he said, clearing his throat and rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up. “What’s up?”

“The FBI are coming back in to help with The Artist. Fury says to get all the reports ready for them.”

Bucky sighed. _“Again?_  I’ve already made six copies for them before! What the hell do they do with ‘em?” he questioned angrily.

Natasha chuckled. “Good question. _But_  as much as I hate to admit it, we’re at a dead-end. Maybe they’ll catch something we missed.”

“I guess,” he muttered. _“Fine._  Tell Fury I’ll have ‘em ready this afternoon.”

A big yawn overtook him, making him reach his arms out in a stretch. God, sometimes sitting at a desk all day got him all cramped and knotted up.

_“Holy shit,_  what happened to your neck?!”

Before he knew it, Natasha was reaching across the desk and pulling down the collar of his sweater, revealing the bite marks there. Bucky slapped her hand away, scooting his chair back out of her reach.

_“Stop._  I just... It’s a _guy,_  okay? He’s...into biting?”

Natasha whistled at him. _“Kinky.”_

The man snorted. “Yeah. It’s... It’s pretty hot.”

Natasha took a seat on his desk, settling in for a good, long conversation. “So you’ve slept with him? How many dates?”

“No dates. And we haven’t slept together. We just...sorta met? Hard to explain. But...stuff happened and it was _hot,_  okay? And _he’s_  hot. Like, _crazy_  hot.”

_“James, you slut,”_  she said, grinning at him. “So I’m guessing you’re gonna see him again?”

Bucky could feel himself blushing, lowering his gaze to the floor. “I mean... Yeah, maybe. He- He said I could come to his restaurant and he’d cook for me. _He’s a chef.”_

_“Oh, my God, you have to go!”_  Natasha insisted. “A chef? Are you kidding me? Why can’t I meet guys like that?”

The man snorted. “’Cause you’re too busy casually fucking your partner and being scared of telling him you actually wanna have a relationship with him?”

She hummed. “Nah, that’s not it.”

They both laughed.

*

He stared at his phone. It lay on the kitchen table before him as he ate his dinner.

Steve had put in his number before Bucky left his place a few days ago.

Bucky wanted to call. He wanted to talk to him. Be near him.

It was fucked up, he knew that. Steve was a killer. _A fucking cannibal!_

But he was so... So everything. The words to describe it didn’t exist. When they were together, there was something magical in the air. This burning electricity, that seemed to come from Steve. It filled the air and made it hard to inhale. It rushed to Bucky’s head, made him dizzy and blind and _so fucking horny._  It electrified his entire body, set him on fire, made him burn from the inside, his blood boiled, made him so eager for some sort of _release._  Nothing he’d ever known before had ever made him feel like that. Even after just that small _hit,_  he was addicted. He wanted more. He needed more.

He needed Steve.

Bucky grabbed the phone.

Who cared about right and wrong? He couldn’t stop himself.

“James...” Steve said as he answered.

Just his voice made Bucky shiver.

“It’s Bucky. O-Only my ma calls me James.”

_“Bucky._  It’s cute. May I ask why you’re calling?”

Bucky cleared his throat, poking at his food with his fork. “I... I wanna see you. Again. Soon. I just, I need to. I-I-I dunno why, I just gotta.”

Steve made a pleased little noise. “Of course. Who am I to deny that need? I’m at the restaurant. We close at eleven. Come by. I’d love to have you for a late dinner.”

A chill ran down Bucky’s spine. He pushed his plate away.

“Okay. I’ll be there. At eleven.”

“Good. I’ll make sure the door’s still unlocked. See you then.”

“Yeah. See you then.”

*

He stepped through the restaurant’s front doors. It was just after eleven.

The place was deserted and dimly lit. The chairs were upturned on the tables, save for one single table near the kitchen. As he moved toward it, he saw it was beautifully set, with flowers and candles decorating the snow white silk tablecloth.

“Hello?” he said into the empty space. “Steve, you here?!”

“In the kitchen!” came the reply from behind the kitchen door. “Wait out there! I’ll be out in a minute! Have a seat!”

Bucky was uncertain of what to do. Or, well, he knew what he was supposed to do, he just...didn’t want to do it wrong. He wanted to do good. Be good. Fuck, why did he need to be good?

Bucky shrugged out of his jacket. He hung it over the leg of an upturned chair at another table. He ran his hands down the front of the button-up he’d thrown on before leaving home, hoping to smooth it out a little. He hadn’t had time to iron it. Not that he actually had an iron or an ironing board. He chose one of the seats at the table and sat down.

He ran his hands through his hair. He let his hair out of the tight knot he’d put it in. He put it back up again. God, he should’ve gotten a haircut a long time ago. He never knew what to do with this long-ass hair. He tightened the knot and folded his hands in his lap to keep from fiddling with it any more.

He waited.

He listened to the slight commotion in the kitchen; the sound of Steve moving around, preparing something delicious. Bucky grabbed the wine bottle that sat on the table. He popped the cork out easily, the bottle having already been opened before, and poured himself a generous glass.

Bucky had barely sipped it when the kitchen door was opened, Steve having pushed it open with his back. He moved swiftly, gracefully. He set the two plates he carried down on the table.

A salad?

“Hope you don’t mind,” Steve said, an easy smirk on his thin lips, as he sat down across from Bucky. “The kitchen’s closed.”

Bucky would admit, he was caught off guard. He tried to swallow it down, though. He picked up the wine bottle and poured a glass for Steve.

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” he said.

Steve watched him with sharp eyes. Bucky set the bottle down and took up his cutlery instead. He tasted the salad; leafy greens, tomato, cucumber, onion, carrot, mushroom, feta cheese, some kind of vinaigrette and seasoning Bucky couldn’t quite make out.

He sighed with delight around the flavour.

He met Steve’s eyes and smiled.

“Like I thought,” Bucky said. “Delicious.”

Steve’s smirk became a pleased smile. He picked up his cutlery as well.

“I should’ve reserved a table for you,” the chef said, after a moment. “I could’ve cooked you something _extraordinary._  But I guess this is best. Lets us be alone.”

Bucky almost choked on his wine when he felt Steve’s foot touch against his calf.

“Is something wrong?” Steve asked, still smiling.

Bucky shook his head, lowering his glass. “No. No, not at all.”

Steve’s toes crept up the inside of Bucky’s left leg. He had kicked his shoe off under the table at some point. Bucky swallowed a breathy noise when Steve’s toes reached high on his thigh.

They ate in silence. Bucky could feel Steve’s eyes on him the entire time, watching his every move, even as the chef slowly teased higher up Bucky’s leg. _Fuck,_  Bucky could feel his cock growing hard. The touch was perhaps a bit awkward, but _oh, God,_  it certainly brought to mind how the rest of Steve’s body felt against him.

The memories of them standing in Steve’s kitchen burned in Bucky’s head. The bites on his neck felt like they were on fire. There were no claw marks left on his stomach and chest, and yet Bucky could feel them there, the memory so clear and vivid.

Bucky gasped, his fork clattering against the plate as he dropped it. Steve was pressing gently against the bulge in Bucky’s jeans. When he raised his eyes from what was left of his salad, he was met with the chef’s burning eyes. He looked like he was famished, literally _starving_  for Bucky.

“It’s getting awfully late. How about we leave the cleaning up for tomorrow, and I’ll give you a ride home?”

Bucky swallowed dryly.

“Y-Yeah. Yes. That...sounds good.”

Steve’s touch under the table disappeared. “Why don’t you wait outside? I’ll just lock up.”

Bucky nodded. He drained his wine in one go then got up, only moderately embarrassed by the bulging of his jeans. He could feel the blush fill his entire body when he saw that Steve was watching him, watching the almost throbbing bulge, and licking his lips.

_Fuck._

*

Steve handed him a matte black motorcycle helmet. Excitement tingled throughout Bucky’s body.

They walked up the block in silence until Steve stopped at a shiny Harley parked by the curb. Bucky didn’t know much about motorcycles but he could tell this one was a _beast._  He watched, speechless and dry in the mouth, as Steve kneeled to unlock the bike. And shit, no one had a right to look as sexy in a motorcycle helmet as Steve did once he put his own on. He swung one of his muscular legs over the bike, sitting astride it. He kicked up the stands. He looked up at Bucky, the dark tinted visor sending chills down Bucky’s spine. Bucky put his helmet on. He climbed onto the bike behind Steve.

Bucky’s visor fogged up with his hot breaths when Steve grabbed him and dragged him in to sit closer. He guided Bucky’s arms to wrap around his waist.

The bike purred as it came to life. Bucky grabbed on tighter to Steve.

The ride was...nerve-wracking. Bucky clung to Steve for dear life as the man pushed _way_  past the speed limit. They weaved through traffic. The bike roared like a monster. Bucky could feel his body shaking. He was still hard. God, he could cum just like this. He was pressed so close to Steve, his hands on the man’s hard chest and tight belly, the leather seat between their legs, the bike vibrating intensely as the engine revved.

Steve parked in front of Bucky’s building. It should probably have concerned Bucky somewhat that Steve knew his address without Bucky telling him, but he already knew Steve had been stalking him for God knows how long. It wasn’t a surprise.

Bucky’s legs trembled as he climbed off the bike. He removed his helmet, face flushed and burning hot. He watched Steve move off the bike with an immeasurable amount of grace. It seemed impossible; how did such a big, bulky body move so smoothly and easily? Steve didn’t even look at him until after he was done fussing with the lock and chain.

When he _did_  look at at Bucky, though, it was with the same hunger as he always seemed to have.

Bucky looked around quickly. It was dark out, the empty side street illuminated only by flickering street lights and the glow seeping out from windows here and there.

He took one large step towards Steve then sank to his knees. He set the black helmet on the ground, freeing his hands to work on Steve’s belt. Steve didn’t stop him. His khaki slacks bulged just like Bucky’s jeans. Bucky’s heart jumped into his throat when he could finally lay his eyes on Steve’s cock.

It was big and hard, curving upwards and slightly to the left, the perfect amount of veins ridging up along it, the head nice and red, precum beading lazily at its slit. It was beautiful. Bucky’s mouth watered. Heat coiled and twisted inside him.

He opened his mouth and at once took as much of it as he could. He hadn’t sucked anyone off in a while, his gag reflex was rusty, he only got halfway before his throat started fighting it. But Steve made a pleased little noise, a hum and a sigh, one big hand coming to rest atop Bucky’s head. Bucky let his tongue slide along the underside of his cock as he moved on it. He took it slow, clutching at Steve’s thighs. He sucked hard for a moment, then let up to give light stokes of his tongue. He hummed around it, knowing how good the vibrations felt, and sank as deep as he could. He revelled in the bitter taste of precum on his tongue.

Steve’s hand tightened in Bucky’s hair, dragging him off his cock.

“Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” he said, only minutely breathless.

Bucky stared up at him with wide eyes. He licked his lips and nodded.

*

The lock clicked.

They were alone in Bucky’s apartment.

Steve stood just a foot away from Bucky, hands in his pockets, a wry smile on his face.

Bucky swallowed dryly. He could still taste Steve on his lips.

“I... How do you want me?” Bucky asked, voice shaking. “What d’you want me to do?”

That wry, _knowing_  smile on Steve’s face grew steely and cold. It looked cruel. Goosebumps rolled over Bucky’s skin, a cold sweat starting down his back.

“I’m in the mood for hunting. A good _chase.”_

Bucky quivered in his boots.

_“Run.”_

A gasping breath left Bucky’s lips, he dropped the motorcycle helmet, he started running.

He ran for the living room. He could almost feel Steve breathing down his neck. He heard a bang and clatter. Steve leapt into sight, right in front of Bucky. _He just went straight over the fucking coffee table, fucking shit._  Bucky skid to a halt, falling to the floor in an awkward pile of limbs. A meek cry left him, he scrambled back and away from Steve’s towering body. Steve followed in a slow prowl.

Bucky staggered to his feet, setting off in the other direction. _Fuck, he couldn’t remember the layout of his own fucking apartment!_

His soles screamed as he skid on the tiled floor off the kitchen. Steve appeared on the other side of the kitchen island.

He had never looked more like a wild animal.

Bucky stepped left.

Steve stepped right, mirroring him.

Bucky stepped right, Steve stepped left.

A stalemate.

They stared at each other.

Bucky couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded, his body was on fire, the fear made him shake and shiver, tears were welling up in his eyes.

Steve moved.

He ran left.

An undignified sound left Bucky’s mouth and he started running again.

Back through the apartment to the living room. Bucky managed to vault over the back of the couch. His knees knocked into the coffee table, he yelped and almost fell again, he rounded the low table quickly.

Steve vaulted over the couch too, landing on its seat cushions, leaping from there and over the coffee table.

He made an attempt to grab at Bucky.

Bucky could feel Steve’s hands on his arm, just missing him.

They were going in fucking circles and still it was terrifying.

In the blink of an eye, they were back in the kitchen, places reversed from the last time.

Steve was between the island and the counters, Bucky with his back to the living room.

Bucky’s eyes flit to the knife block, just to Steve’s right. _Fuck,_  Steve caught that look. Bucky’s heart seemed to stop when Steve snatched a knife from the block. It looked so right in his hand.

He threw it.

Bucky hit the floor. He could almost feel the whoosh of the blade cleaving the air, the knife passing just above his head. A loud _thwack_  and _bang,_  the knife hitting the wall in the living room.

He crawled on his hands and knees, tears pouring down his cheeks. His stomach twisted and turned, the lust and the fear fighting so hard he was almost nauseous.

(Art by [Chalenmimi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi)

 

The breath was punched from his lungs when a heavy stomp came down on his back. It pushed him down, _hard,_  into the floor. He clawed at the floorboards. Steve’s weight was on top on him then, sitting on Bucky’s thighs, a hand on his neck keeping him down, his cheek pressed to the floor.

Another knife appeared in front of his eyes.

“This was... _fun.”_

Steve’s voice was at his ear, his breath warm on Bucky’s skin.

“I can’t wait to drag you to the bedroom, cut you outta these clothes, and fuck you ‘til you _beg_  me to stop.”

_God, fuck, yes._

(Art by [kittyandmulder)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)

 

Bucky gasped for air.

He could feel Steve grinding against him; the bulge of his cock felt so fucking amazing on Bucky’s ass. All Bucky could do was imagine how it would feel inside him, fucking him out of his mind.

“Yes... Please...” Bucky whined.

“You want that, Bucky? You wanna get fucked?”

He gasped when Steve put the knife against his cheek, just under his eye.

“You want this knife to your throat while I do it?”

_“Mm-hm...”_

At the corner of his eye, he could see Steve grinning.

“Or maybe I should just fuck you right here, like this. Get these jeans down, shove my cock in you, make ya _beg_  for it. How’s that sound, Buck? Sound good?”

Bucky keened, nails rasping across the floorboards.

_“Yes.”_

“What’s that? You gotta speak up for me. I can’t really hear ya.”

Bucky grit his teeth. His cock ached, grinding so hard into the floor.

_“Yes!”_

Steve’s grin grew wider. “That’s not very respectful. You should address your betters _properly._  Let’s do it again. Repeat after me, Buck. _Yes, sir.”_

He could feel the tears pooling on the floor by his eye.

“Yes, sir. P-Please fuck me right here.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Bucky’s heart skipped when Steve stabbed the knife into the floor to free up his hand. God, it was barely an inch away from the tip of Bucky’s nose.

His jeans were dragged down over his ass. He heard a zipper be undone. _Fuck, yes._  Steve’s fingers pushed into Bucky’s mouth as his cock grinded against his bare ass. Bucky didn’t even have to work. Steve fucked his mouth quickly, slicking his fingers up.

He let go of Bucky’s neck to snatch up the knife again. His forearm came to rest across Bucky’s head, the blade dangling in front of his eyes. Those amazing, long, thick fingers moved. The tears poured as Steve pushed his fingers into Bucky’s ass, two fingers, nothing nice about it. A breathless moan left Bucky. He only gave a few strokes, a few hard thrusts of his fingers, before deciding it was all Bucky was worth.

Steve spat, then his cockhead nudged against Bucky’s rim. Bucky sobbed and moaned.

“Please, sir, please, do it, want it so bad, sir...” he whined.

Steve thrust into him, burying his cock as deep inside Bucky as he could, all at once. Bucky cried out; _fuck, the pain was so good, it stabbed all through his body, countered by the amazing, blinding pleasure of Steve thrusting right into his prostate._

Fire lapped at his skin.

Steve pulled out so slow, until even the head was barely inside, then thrust it all in again, fucking Bucky into the floor. It was hard and mean and brutal. Steve was all but growling in his ear, fucking him like a goddamn animal. Bucky couldn’t believe how good it felt.

The knife clattered to the floor. Steve started pulling on Bucky’s clothes. He tore at the jacket, dragging it off Bucky’s body. He tore Bucky’s shirt to shreds, baring his back. He fumbled for the knife again.

A hand wrapped around Bucky’s throat, pulling him up from the floor somewhat. He felt cold steel against his back. The blade felt good beyond words. Steve’s mouth was all over him. Wherever the knife touched, his mouth followed, tasting skin and biting flesh, as he just kept pushing himself deeper into Bucky. He was going to explode, Bucky was going to blow up with all these sensations swirling around in his head.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby...” Steve grunted, teeth dragging up Bucky’s spine. “You wanna, _fuck,_  wanna be a good boy an’ cum for me? Tell me, baby, tell me how bad you wanna cum.”

_Fuck,_  how was he supposed to talk like this? Steve was so fucking deep inside him, a hand choking away every thought in his head, the cold steel of a knife ghosting across his skin, teeth biting into him and breaking skin and drawing blood, _how was he supposed to form words?_

_“Ye- Yes! Please!”_  he managed to squeeze out, despite himself. _“Please! Gimme!”_

Steve was speeding up, thrusting faster. With every push, he absolutely ruined Bucky. He _tortured_  the pleasure out of him. He dragged it kicking and screaming out of every corner of Bucky’s body.

Searing pain sliced through Bucky, the knife cutting him across the back. The orgasm burned him from the inside out. Steve’s thrusts got harder and harder again; he fucked Bucky through it, no mercy. The mean thrusts stuttered and staggered, Steve all but collapsing on top of Bucky as he came inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittyandmulder:  
> [tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)  
> [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)
> 
> Chalenmimi:  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi)  
> [tumblr](http://chalenmimi-frenchtoast.tumblr.com/)


	10. Removes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Removes](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/10nrS0vnRF8QDPRhJNG9k4?si=emOMglaVTWC88oJG5mtSMA)

Bucky sat up slowly. God, his body ached. Last night was... It was certainly something.

He looked around his bedroom. Hm, he was alone. Couldn’t hear anyone in the adjoining bathroom either. Steve had left.

His heart sank a little. He had enjoyed their time together last night. Not just dinner and the sex. Steve had been... _gentle_  with him. After it all. It was still a little blurry but Bucky distinctly remembered being all but carried into the shower. Having his body carefully washed, the cuts and bites on his back cared for with a soft touch, Steve laying down with him in bed and holding him close, easing him out of the way his head was spinning and floating and pulsing.

Bucky dragged himself out of bed, despite how he ached. He shuffled into the bathroom. He tried to look at his back in the mirror, over his shoulder. Fuck, it looked like a mess. There were patches taped to him, all over his upper back, blood spotting a few of them. _Lovely._  He grabbed some sweatpants from the hamper, put them on, and headed for the kitchen. He was _starving._

He stopped dead on the bedroom threshold.

Steve was in his kitchen. Steve was standing in Bucky’s kitchen, working at the stove top, a frying pan sizzling softly.

“Hey,” Steve said, a smile on his face. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought you deserved a nice breakfast. Managed to throw something together with what you had in the fridge.”

Bucky was...speechless. He had been completely prepared for Steve being gone.

“Go on. Sit. Food’s almost done. I’ll pour you some coffee.”

Bucky shuffled over to the small kitchen table and sat down. He watched Steve. The chef moved with ease in the kitchen, even though it wasn’t his own. He poured Bucky a big cup of coffee and plated an omelette and some sausages, doing the same for himself. He sat down across from Bucky and smiled.

“I hope you slept well.”

Bucky nodded. Not wanting to seem rude, he picked up his fork and started taking small bites of the omelette.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Steve continued. ”-but I wanted to make a few things clear.”

Bucky kept his eyes on his food.

“I can see that you’re afraid. You don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. At least, not more than you _want_  to be hurt.”

Bucky sipped his coffee.

“I feel like we’re on the same level. You understand me, what I do. So far I’m assuming you support it. Can you nod if that’s true?”

He nodded slowly.

“I’m glad. _This,_  between us... I want it to be a thing. A...relationship. Would you like that?”

Bucky looked up at him. He nodded his head. Even though his brain was all over the place, he knew that a relationship with Steve was the only thing he wanted in the world.

Steve’s face warmed further yet, his smile almost blinding.

“I’m glad. And last night. Did you enjoy it? Dinner? All that came after?”

Bucky nodded again at that. “Yeah. 's perfect.”

Steve’s smile was soft and kind. He didn’t look like a hunter or a monster, he didn’t look hungry. He looked...human. He reached his hand across the table and offered it to the other man. Bucky did the same, taking Steve’s hand in his own.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Bucky swallowed dryly. “I... I’ll get there. I think. I just...need to get used to _this._  Us? I guess.”

Steve gave Bucky’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Of course.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself when he heard his phone ring. He got up quickly and hurried over to where his jacket had been hung up on the coat rack by the front door. Steve must have hung it up this morning, before Bucky got up. Bucky dug through the pockets after his phone. _Shit,_  Natasha was calling.

“Yeah, hey, what’s up?” Bucky asked as he answered, hoping he sounded... _normal._

“Hey. You sound weird. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just woke up. Uh, wh- what’s up? What’s happening? Body?”

“Yup! I’ll text you the address. Meet us there?”

“Sure thing. Be there as fast as I can. Can you grab my kit for me? Spare me the trip down to the precinct.”

“Sure. See ya there.”

He shoved the phone back into his jacket pocket, then headed back to the kitchen.

“Sorry, it’s work, I gotta go.”

Steve still smiled, nodding. “Of course. You go get dressed. I’ll pack up some of the food so you can eat in the cab, and have some for lunch.”

A small smile painted Bucky’s lips as well. “Thank you.”

Steve got up. He placed a chaste kiss on Bucky’s cheek.

*

Bucky could almost physically feel Clint and Natasha’s eyes on him as he climbed out of the cab. Bucky pushed his sunglasses further up on his nose and checked his collar, making sure the worst of the marks were covered.

“Morning,” Clint said as Bucky came up the cobbled path to the suburban house where the scene was located.

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled. “My kit?”

Natasha smirked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Inside. Body’s upstairs. First door on the left. The team’s done most of the room, left the body for you.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

He shifted the straps of his backpack awkwardly.

“Oversleep?” Natasha asked, still smirking.

The CSI cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorta.”

The detectives hummed knowingly, glancing at each other. They knew when Bucky was bullshitting them, and Bucky knew they knew.

“Save it for the water cooler?” Clint suggested.

Natasha nodded. Bucky sighed.

They headed inside and upstairs to the scene.

*

_“So.”_

Bucky sighed. He put down the tupperware Steve had packed his lunch in and turned his chair. The Detectives stood on his threshold.

 _“So_  what?” he questioned.

The detectives both scoffed at him.

 _“So_  either you went on one hell of a bender last night to roll up lookin’ that bad, _or_  you got laid,” Clint said.

“And we all know the only things you drink are coffee, orange soda, and energy drinks,” Natasha added. “None of which can really constitute a _bender.”_

 _“Ergo,_  you got laid.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. _“Shaddup,_  Clint, you don’t even know what ergo means. Plus, y’all are just _jealous_  ‘cause I got some good dick.”

“So it was good, huh?” Natasha questioned with a grin.

The CSI sighed. The detectives pulled up a seat and sat down around his desk.

“Spill the beans, Barnes.”

Bucky sighed again. He wasn’t getting out of this one.

“Please tell me it was the chef,” Natasha said.

Bucky really couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah. I called him last night and he invited me to his restaurant and we had dinner together.”

 _“And then...?”_  Clint teased.

“He might’ve given me a ride home on his motorcycle.”

The detectives both oo-ed at that.

“He cooks _and_  he’s got a nice bike?” Clint said. “Hell, if the sex was good, I might have to steal him off ya.”

Natasha scoffed, shoving her partner hard enough to send his office chair rolling. “Not if I get there first, birdbrain.”

Clint laughed and Bucky snorted at them both.

“Good luck. He said he wants us to be a thing. Like, a steady relationship.”

 _“Oooh,_  after _one_  date?” Natasha said. “Guess you weren’t the only one who got the good dick.”

 _“C’mon!_  Spill! Give us the details!” Clint begged, bouncing in his seat.

Bucky sighed.

“It was... _Intense.”_

Again, the detectives ooh-ed.

*

Bucky was glad his friends had _some_  decency and didn’t force him to spill _every gritty detail_  of his night with Steve. That would’ve been...bad. It would’ve been very bad. God, they would’ve freaked out as soon as he told them about sucking Steve off right there in the open on the sidewalk in front of his building. And Christ, from there it would’ve only gone downhill.

But they _did_  have at least that tiny little bit of decency left and let him talk in broad strokes.

Even then, he was thankfully saved by the bell. Or rather, the ringtone.

Natasha’s phone had chimed and Fury had yelled at her to get off her ass and drag herself and her partner and Bucky upstairs for a briefing. Natasha only laughed and told him _yes, bossman_  before hanging up. She and Clint headed out. Bucky scrambled around his office like a chicken with its head cut off to get all the files on The Artist together.

He had to load them into a _cart_  to be able to bring them all. Ten years of activity spawned ten years of paperwork, he supposed. He was just in time out of the elevator to catch Fury’s introduction of the agents.

”-so we’ve got Supervising Special Agent Phil Coulson and Special Agent Tony Stark to lend a hand,” he said, gesturing to the two suit-clad men standing to his left. “Gentlemen?”

Fury stepped aside, surrendering the floor to the agents. The one of them who looked older, with slight wrinkles having started to form and hairline slowly receding, stepped up to take the floor he had been given.

“Thank you, Captain. Good afternoon, Detectives, Officers,” he said. “As the Captain stated, I’m Supervising Special Agent Phil Coulson. I’ll be in charge of the investigation surrounding The Artist from now, but let’s _not_  turn this into a jurisdictional pissing contest. _We all_  wanna catch The Artist. A lot of people have already died and a lot _more_  people will die if we don’t catch this person, or persons. Let’s work together, and maybe we can keep those people breathing.”

 _“Hear, hear!”_ < Clint said from in the crowd of policemen and women.

The crowd supported the sentiment. Coulson nodded.

“Sounds good. Now, I hear you’ve got the resident expert on The Artist hiding somewhere around here?”

Bucky pushed the cart forward and approached with it. “Here, sir!” he said. “Sorry I’m a lil’ late. Had to get all the files together.”

“Not an issue, son,” Coulson said. “How about you get up here and give us all a quick run through of what we know?”

Bucky nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He grabbed his notebook from the top of the pile on the cart, stepping up. He opened it quickly to his notes on the case.

“Well... First body dropped ten years ago, on July fourth. Easily the _least_  elegant of The Artist’s cases, but undeniably, it was The Artist’s work.” he started. “Victim was sixty-three year old Joseph Rogers, a butcher from Brooklyn. Husband to Sarah Rogers, a nurse at Metro General, and father to Ste-“

Bucky stopped.

_Father to Steven Grant Rogers, a twenty-one year old culinary school student._

Steve. Steve killed his dad?

Bucky cleared his throat quickly, focusing back on the crowd of the police and FBI staring at him. “Father to Steven Grant Rogers, a twenty-one year old culinary school student.”

He would have talk to Steve about _that,_  a little later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> figured i'd let yall know what the posting schedule is looking like for the rest of the fic!
> 
> Feb 28th: Chapter 11-12  
> March 1st: Chapter 13-14  
> March 2nd: Chapter 15-16  
> March 3rd: Chapter 17-18  
> March 4th: Chapter 19  
> March 5th: Chapter 20 (Epilogue)
> 
> hope you enjoy the rest of this wild ride! <3


	11. Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Punch](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/29AaNq465IFSUQZ1YFjgcV?si=2nEn9SRHTwSkM_OFX5Lf7Q)

The door opened to Steve smiling at him. Bucky’s insides went warm and tingly, that smile reaching deep into his chest and squeezing his heart.

“C’mon in!” Steve said, gesturing for him to do so and moving back to let him do it.

The breath caught in Bucky’s throat as he stepped over the threshold. Steve watched with warm eyes. Lord, it felt like he was reading Bucky’s mind.

“I’ve almost got dinner ready.”

Bucky closed the door softly behind himself. “What’re we having?”

“Steak.”

Bucky swallowed.

“And _is it_  steak?”

Steve’s soft smile turned into a toothy grin, right before Bucky’s very eyes.

“No.”

Bucky’s gut twisted and churned. Fuck.

The man’s smile went soft again. It happened in an instant. It was like putting on a mask.

It was terrifying.

“Come in! Take off your jacket! Have a seat in the dining room!”

He moved towards the kitchen, leaving Bucky to get settled.

Bucky swallowed again. This was... God, it was so fucked up. He fucking _loved_  it, but God, he knew how fucked up it was.

He toed out of his shoes, set his bag down, hung aside his jacket. With trepidation,  he shuffled through the house. Last time he’d been there, he had broken in and _gotten caught and tied up in the basement to get murdered._  No, he didn’t _actually_  get murdered, but fuck, he really thought he was going to die there. He thought he was going to die in this house.

And now he was here on invitation, to have dinner, with someone who was now perhaps his _boyfriend._

Was Steve his boyfriend? That talk they had had just that morning, it seemed like he _wanted_  to be Bucky’s boyfriend. Fuck...

Bucky sat down in the dining room, at the head of the table, where a place was set. Another place was set at the other end, also at the head. A table runner made of red silk ran from end to end. There were candles set out and lit, one on either side of the centrepiece, which itself was an arrangement of roses and greenery. Rose petals were strewn out from the piece, all the way down to either place setting. The cutlery was polished to shine brilliantly. There was a wine glass, as well as a smaller glass for other beverages.

He looked into the kitchen from where he sat.

Steve was moving easily through the kitchen. He belonged there, it was obvious. This place may be his house, but that kitchen was his _home._  He looked to be _a part_  of that kitchen. It was his, and he was it’s.

Steve poured wine for them both, placing a stylish carafe of water adjacent to either seat as well. Moments later, he served the food.

A white porcelain plate was set down carefully in front of Bucky.

He stared at it.

The steak that wasn’t steak looked to have been cooked to perfection, delicately braised. Blood red sauce was drizzled over it. He hoped it was made with wine. It was paired simply with boiled potatoes and leafy greens, no doubt to put focus on the steak that wasn’t steak. _It looked delicious._

He watched Steve sit down. They looked at each other over the decorations on the table.

Bucky couldn’t breathe.

The smell of the food, it was entrancing. He felt almost hypnotized.

He picked up the cutlery.

He speared the meat with his fork and cut it carefully with the knife. He touched it to the sauce gently, he didn’t want to get too much. His eyes fell closed.

The taste filled him to the brim.

Warm and peppery, savoury and somehow just a hint of sweetness. He tasted the wine on the sauce.

It was incredible.

A soft noise escaped him, a moan forming around the flavour.

When he opened his eyes, they landed on Steve. The chef watched him _intently._  Just as Bucky was hypnotized by the food, Steve was hypnotized by Bucky eating it. Eating... _them._  The person. Whoever they were.

“M-May I ask... Who is it?” Bucky questioned.

His voice was choked with both fear and arousal. God, Steve did horrible, amazing things to him.

“No one important,” Steve replied, a smirk curving his perfect lips.

Fuck, he just wanted to _have_  Steve, wanted to feel him again, like he had last night, deep inside him.

“Finish your food, James,” Steve added. “Then we can call it an early night. How does that sound?”

Bucky swallowed the tight knot of arousal stuck in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Steve’s smirk crooked further, turning into a mean grin. Bucky loved it.

From there, they ate in silence for some time.

Bucky glanced up at Steve now and then, sweating under his scrutiny. Every single time he looked up, he was met with Steve’s blue eyes already fixed on him.

His stomach turned at the food but...not in a bad way. It didn’t turn because the food tasted _bad_  or was improperly cooked or seasoned. It turned...

It turned because it tasted _good._  It turned because Bucky knew he _should have_  hated it, been disgusted by it, spat it out as soon as it touched his tongue. It turned, because Bucky loved it, because this was the only thing he wanted to eat for the rest of his life.

He could drown in this meal.

“Steve...”

The man smiled. “Yes?”

Bucky swallowed hard. Fuck, his hands were sweating, chills were running up and down his spine.

“Did you kill your father?”

Steve sipped his wine. “No. My mother did.”

The breath caught in Bucky’s throat. “Wh-... What?”

Steve shrugged. “Or rather, she instructed me on how to do it. I strangled him with a length of steel wire. It was sloppy and messy. I’d never done it before.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe at all. He watched, _stared,_  as Steve spoke. The man stopped now and then for a few moments at a time, to take another bite of his food. He then didn’t speak again until he had swallowed.

“It took him a long time to die. He didn’t even die of strangulation. The wire cut so deep into his neck that it damaged his carotid artery, making him bleed out instead. Once he was dead, though, mom showed me her sketches. She had planned the staging in detail. The murder was sloppy, but the posing was perfect. She and I played our parts perfectly, as well. The grieving widow wailing over the mangled corpse of the love of her life. The only son trying his hardest to remain strong and stoic, but failing miserably. She cooked his heart for me.”

Steve met Bucky’s eyes. Holy fuck. Steve’s mother had helped him? Told him to kill his father, helped to plan and move the body and pose it, _cooked him_  for Steve to eat... Bucky was just _reeling_  from this. It was hard to wrap his head around it. Steve alone was hard to believe, not to mention _his mother_  too!

“Is... Is she still alive?”

The chef sipped his wine again.

“No. I killed her three years ago. She was delicious. She agreed.”

“What? H-How could she _agree?”_

Steve smiled.

“I amputated her left leg first. I cooked it and served it. She ate her fill. Then I killed her.”

“But... Her body? We’ve never found it...”

“No, you have not. I reported her missing after I began the amputation. She hid in the basement of this house until her death. After, I stripped the meat from her bones and composted what wasn’t good enough to eat. I broke, crushed, and pulverized her bones. I spread some in the river. I mixed the rest in a bucket of white paint and used it as a base coat when we painted the restaurant.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe at all. He swallowed around the tight knot his tongue had become. Goosebumps flared all over his body. He shivered. He grabbed his glass and drank deep of his wine. Maybe it would help ease his nerves.

“The FBI is investigating again.”

He wasn’t sure how the words formed. His throat was dry and useless, and yet he had managed to make words.

Steve hummed. “I figured they would. They have tried before, and they have failed before. They’ll be gone soon.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. Not this time. The agents, Coulson and Stark, they’re _determined._  They won’t stop this time. They said they have permission to stay for however long was necessary to catch you.”

Steve sipped his wine, unconcerned. “Then I’ll have to handle them. Capturing two FBI agents won’t be easy, I’m sure, but I’m confident I’ll figure it out.”

“I-...”

_I want to help,_  Bucky had wanted to say.

“Is it fair of me to assume you’d like to lend a hand?”

Steve could read his fucking mind.

“Y-Yes.”

“I’m glad. We can talk about it tomorrow. Are you finished with your food?”

“Yes.”

Bucky had emptied his plate. He had eaten it all. All of...them. That person. Whoever they were.

“Good. Leave the plate. Go upstairs. Second door on the left is the bedroom. Go inside. Kneel at the foot of the bed. I need to clean up here.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

He found the bedroom easily; second door on the left, just like Steve had said. He closed the door behind him.

The bedroom was small and relatively bare. There was only the wide king-size bed, nightstands at either its sides, and the closet built into the wall. On either side of the closet doors, there was a wooden chair.

Bucky was hard. His cock ached, his boxers and jeans all too tight around him. He wanted to undress but Steve hadn’t said he could. If he undressed, Steve might be upset with him. If he got upset, then maybe he wouldn’t even _touch_  Bucky. Maybe he’d tell Bucky to leave and go home. Bucky didn’t want to leave. He wanted Steve. He wanted Steve to touch him. Touch him all over, every inch of his body, taste him and bite him and eat him up.

He sank to his knees at the foot of the bed, sitting back on his heels. He stared at the door. He could hear faint sounds of Steve moving around downstairs. The noise of the old floorboards creaking seemed to travel for miles through the house. Pots and pans clattered, the pipes rumbled in the walls as water ran. He could imagine Steve downstairs, moving with precision, every motion carefully controlled, nothing done without a plan, without thoroughly thinking through the consequences, even in his daily life.

He waited.

He kept his back as straight as he could, shoulders back and chin up. Hands lax in his lap. Eyes fixed on the door. Heart pounding. Mouth dry.

He waited.

The noise from the kitchen ended. The house fell silent. All Bucky could hear was his own soft, shaking breaths.

The door opened.

Bucky’s heart jumped into his throat. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard Steve moving up the stairs. How was that possible? They had made a hell of a racket when Bucky went upstairs, how did Steve sneak upstairs without making a single sound?

Bucky stared at him.

Steve closed the door behind himself. He turned the key in the lock. Bucky was there, trapped in that room, with Steve. It was both horrifying and exhilarating as hell.

Steve approached him.

He seemed so big, he seemed like a giant, towering over Bucky’s minuscule form. As always, he stared down at Bucky like he wanted to eat him. Bucky felt like he was about to get eaten up in one single bite; consumed fully, with incredible ease. He prowled like a wild animal. He looked more dangerous than Bucky could even comprehend.

Bucky shivered as the man’s hand threaded through his hair, petting him gently.

“Good boy.”

Everything inside Bucky twisted and clenched and ached.

“You did very good for me, James.”

God, yes, the praise was so good, it made Bucky’s skin itch. Steve made the praise sound like the voice of the host of Heaven itself.

“Th- Thank you, Sir.”

Steve slapped him across the face. Bucky didn’t see it coming, how could he have seen it coming? Steve was __so fast.__  Bucky winced, cowering away. The pain bloomed over his cheek.

“I didn’t say you were allowed to speak, James.”

Bucky whimpered softly. Still, he straightened himself out again, sitting up as he had before.

“Stand.”

Bucky rose to his feet as quickly and smoothly as he could. Couldn’t waste time, couldn’t dawdle, he wanted to be good.

Steve’s eyes wandered over his body. Bucky could die under those eyes.

“You make me _so hungry.”_

A whimper wanted to leave Bucky’s body, but somehow, _somehow,_  he strangled it down and kept it in.

“You’re a pretty little thing... Turn.”

Bucky turned around and faced the bed. Having Steve behind him, out of sight, was... It was uncomfortable. It felt as though at any moment Bucky would die; pain would stab through his body and death would take him. But at the same time, the excitement burned throughout his whole body, pooling at its hottest in his crotch.

He felt Steve’s breath on the back of his neck. His body was pressed flush to Bucky’s. He couldn’t breathe when he felt Steve against him, hands coming into sight. Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat.

In his left hand, Steve held a carving knife. In the other, he held a giant meat cleaver.

“You’re right-handed. Right, James?”

Steve’s voice was just at his ear, soft breaths on Bucky’s skin making him want to shiver. Bucky licked his dry lips, nodding. Steve hummed. The noise vibrated out of his body and into Bucky’s.

“I think I could take your left arm off in one good swing.”

The cleaver seemed to shimmer, almost glowing and shining.

“Maybe two, if you’ve got tough bones.”

Fuck, Bucky wanted to lick both of those knives. He wanted to taste the metal and feel their edge.

Steve easily changed his hold on the carving knife, facing its point to Bucky’s chest. It teased patterns over his chest with its dull side. The cleaver came to rest across Bucky’s throat, making him gasp and swallow again. His heart raced harder for a moment, until he realized that it too had its dull side to his skin, not its sharp edge. He knew how easily it could change, though; how easily Steve could change his mind and give him the edge instead. Bucky clenched his fists tight at his sides.

“I think there’s enough good meat on one arm to give us both a decent dinner.”

_Holy shit..._

Steve could take Bucky’s arm, his flesh and meat, and make something amazing, _cook_  something incredible.

“I’ve already tasted you. I _know_  you’d just be _perfect_  when you’re finally on a plate.”

It was hard to breathe, hard to think, it was hard to do a goddamn thing with Steve behind him and _two_  knives against to his body. He never wanted this to end. He never wanted to leave this moment, he wanted to sta-

A sharp pain cut through his side.

_Fuck, there was a fucking knife digging into his side, Steve was actually fucking stabbing him with an actual fucking knife._

He could _feel_  the blood spilling out of him, wetting his side and pouring down his leg and dripping to the floor and pooling there. The adrenaline rushed through him; his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

He gasped, unable to make a sound, as the knife was slowly pulled out of his flesh.

He stared down at it. At the knife leaving his body. His shirt grew red as the blood seeped out. He watched the stain slowly grow, reaching down to his jeans as well, soaking through the fabrics.

_“Take off your clothes.”_

Steve’s touch disappeared back into the emptiness out of Bucky’s sight.

Fuck, fuck, Bucky dragged his eyes away from the blood. He had orders to follow. He had to do as he was told. His hands were shaking when he undid his belt and jeans. He dropped them and his boxers quickly. He grunted at the stabbing pain that came when he bent down. With shaking hands, he removed his sweater and undid his button-up. He dropped them both onto the pile of his other clothes. They were soaked with blood. The small puddle they lay in didn’t help the matter.

His eyes screwed themselves shut when he felt a gentle touch on his back. Steve’s soft fingers running down his spine, touching carefully on the cuts he’d left just days earlier. Christ, the scabs still itched like hell.

“You’re absolutely stunning like this, James.”

He drew lines with his fingers. He traced each and every long, winding scab.

In a flash, his fingers were digging into the new wound. Bucky staggered, sobbing, arms flailing to help him keep his balance. Tears poured down his face, mixing with snot and drool.

Steve withdrew from the wound. He shoved Bucky, making him stumble. Bucky staggered forward, catching himself on the foot of the bed. A strong hand grabbed him by the back of his neck. Bucky whined and winced as he was dragged around the bed. He was shoved down to the floor, falling on his knees. His cock ached and throbbed. He was so fucking horny, he wished Steve would just fuck him already. This was good and amazing and perfect, but it could have been _even better_  if he could just feel Steve’s cock inside him as the knives cut into him. It would be blindingly perfect.

Bucky managed to sit himself up properly and lean back against the side of the bed. His blood was getting everywhere, oozing slowly out of his side. It was on the floor and all over his body and on Steve and on the sheets of the bed, it was so beautiful and bright and _red._  He had never thought about it before. Blood was... It was beautiful, wasn’t it? The color and the smell and _the taste._

He pressed down on his wound with one hand, and brought his other to his mouth. He stared at his fingers in awe. They were so pretty when they were all red like that. He sucked on his fingers. He tasted his own blood. God, yes, it was _perfect._  He looked up. Steve stood over him, the cleaver and the knife held tightly in one hand. With his other, he opened his pants. He pushed his boxers down and helped his cock out to stand free.

Bucky stared at it. Still so beautiful. Bucky removed his fingers from his mouth quickly. He sat up straighter, mouth open to hopefully entice Steve to _use it._

Steve grabbed Bucky by the hair. He pressed Bucky’s head back against the bed, giving an extra little shove to make sure it _stayed_  there. Bucky got the hint. He didn’t move an inch, even when Steve let go. Steve guided his cock to Bucky’s mouth. Bucky moaned as soon as it touched his tongue. _Yes..._

He stared up at Steve. Steve pushed deeper into his mouth, into his throat, making him gag, making him choke. But he didn’t move. Bucky didn’t move a muscle. He knew he wasn’t allowed to move. He stayed still and _took it._

(Art by [kittyandmulder)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)

 

Steve fucked into his throat slowly. He pushed and pulled, slow and steady, just a little deeper at every push, testing Bucky’s limits. He knew, though, _he had to know_  that Bucky didn’t have any limits, not anymore, not where Steve was concerned.

Steve tossed the cleaver onto the bed, leaving him with only the carving knife. Bucky’s heart pounded like a bass-drum. It echoed all through his body, as the knife’s edge landed at his throat. Steve grabbed at Bucky’s head again, the knife pressing against his skin, his thrusting and rutting getting faster and faster.

Steve groaned and cursed over him. Bucky’s head was spinning with oxygen deprivation. It was impossible to breathe. He didn’t _care_  about breathing. All he cared about was being a good hole for Steve to fuck. That was all he wanted. He wanted to be good for Steve.

Still, he gasped for air when Steve’s cock left his mouth. He coughed and hacked, his throat raw from the abuse. Strings of spit connected his lips to Steve’s beautiful cock. They glistened in the low light. It was...breathtaking.

By the grip on Bucky’s hair, Steve dragged him to his feet. He was pushed back onto the bed. He landed atop the cleaver. The cold metal made him hiss. He quickly reached under his own back and got the blade out of harm’s way. He didn’t want it to be damaged by his stupid body. Steve wouldn’t be happy with that.

The sheets were red with his blood. God, he couldn’t _believe_  how beautiful it all was. Steve was making him so beautiful. He truly was an artist.

Steve climbed onto the bed, laying himself on top of Bucky. He moaned at the feeling of Steve’s heavy, muscled body weighing on him. Fuck, that felt good. He cried out; the knife was stabbing into his side again. Was it making another wound? Was it in the same wound as before? It didn’t matter, he didn’t care. He loved how it felt.

“Beautiful, James. Beautiful,” Steve rumbled like thunder.

His face hovered above Bucky. His lips were __just__  out of reach of Bucky’s own.

“Are you mine, James?”

Bucky nodded. He nodded so fast his head spun.

“Are you _really?”_

He nodded again, as quick as he could. Steve had to know, had to understand that Bucky was his, just his, nothing but _his._

“All mine?”

God, Bucky couldn’t stop nodding.

“Just for me?”

Bucky wished he could speak, so he could _tell_  Steve.

“Good. I don’t like to share. If I found out you weren’t _just_  mine...”

The carving knife lived up to its name; it carved deeper into his side. How deep into his flesh was it now? It hurt so bad, but the agony was perfect, it felt amazing, it just made his cock throb harder and leak more.

“Well, I don’t know _what_  I’d do.”

Bucky shook his head. No, no, no, he’d never do that to Steve, he’d never go behind his back and be with someone else, how could he be with anyone else when Steve was so perfect for him?

“P-Please...” Bucky whimpered, clutching at the blood-soaked sheets. _“Please.”_

Steve hushed him softly, his free hand gently petting Bucky’s head.

“Don’t worry, James. Don’t worry.”

The knife was pulled out again. Blood gushed out for a moment. Bucky watched, amazed, as Steve wet his fingers with it. He rubbed it over his cock, lead it Bucky’s hole, and _pushed._

(Art by [Chalenmimi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi)

 

He wasn’t stretched or lubed, or anything. Bucky whined at the pain of the stretch, of Steve fucking hard into him with only Bucky’s own blood to ease the way. In one hard thrust, he was fully seated, filling Bucky to the absolute brim, savagely stretching him all at once.

He screamed, but not at _that_  pain. He screamed at the pain of Steve’s fingers digging into Bucky’s side, burrowing into the deep gash he had made. They both moaned as Steve started moving. He thrusted and rutted into Bucky’s tight hole. Pain and pleasure ripped through Bucky’s body; it cut him to shreds worse than any knife had done or could do. The pain tore him apart and the pleasure glued him back together only to let the process repeat again.

It was _perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittyandmulder:  
> [tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)  
> [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)
> 
> Chalenmimi:  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi)  
> [tumblr](http://chalenmimi-frenchtoast.tumblr.com/)


	12. Sorbet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Sorbet](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/02FaXvQGApY9UiDlAkCh62?si=6bekzOUbQX6mDluQ1xq5fA)

Steve had laid out the plan concerning the FBI agents for Bucky in clear detail. Bucky would have to do most of the work, which wasn’t unforeseen. It would be easier for him to manipulate the agents given that he, as a dedicated employee of the NYPD, was already in their pool of trusted individuals. Steve wouldn’t be able to do what Bucky could do.

It was thrilling.

Steve trusted Bucky with this. He trusted that Bucky would do as he had been told.

Bucky would. He’d do exactly as he was told. He was always good at that, at following orders. This was no different.

The agents had set up shop in the conference room in the homicide department. Bucky could see into the room through its glass walls all the way from the break room. They were both sitting there, pouring over the files Bucky had compiled for them.

Bucky sipped his coffee and waited. There were people in the conference room with the agents. They had to leave before Bucky could approach. He chatted casually with other people streaming in and out of the break room. Mindless things; how was the family, kids doing okay, work’s treating you good, doing anything fun this weekend, the usual boring shit.

He saw his moment. The sole outsider left in the conference room hurried away with her phone to her ear. This was Bucky’s window. He tossed his paper cup of stale coffee in the trash. He crossed the homicide bullpen with quick, determined strides. He stepped into the conference room and shut the door tightly behind himself, releasing a heaving breath of faux relief. When he turned, the agents were staring at him.

“I’m sorry. I-...”

Bucky swallowed. He glanced at the bullpen nervously. He grabbed a chair and sat down, rolling closer to the other men. Fuck, his side burned with pain and his ass was sore as hell.

“I need to- There’s something I should-“

He stopped himself. He tried to take a deep breath, hands scrubbing over his face.

The younger agent, Stark, moved his chair closer to Bucky.

“Take a breath, kid,” he said calmly.

Bucky tried to do that. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could.

“What’s goin’ on, Barnes? D’you find somethin’ new?”

The CSI looked up, meeting the agent’s eyes. He glanced over at Coulson quickly, then back to Stark.

“Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

He took another deep breath

“I... Fuck. _Fuck!”_

He ran his hands through his hair.

“Can’t talk about it here, but...” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ”I think the reason we can’t find The Artist is because _it’s a cop.”_

The eyes of the agents widened. They looked to each other, shocked. Coulson rolled closer then, making certain they could keep their voices low.

“How? How’d you find this out?”

Bucky shook his head almost violently. “Not here. If he, she, they, _whatever,_  if they hear... We’ll never get the drop on ‘em again,” he insisted. “I can tell you everything I know later. _Tonight._  Okay? We can’t do it here. It’s too dangerous.”

Stark looked to Coulson, and Coulson nodded.

“Okay,” the senior agent said. “Okay. Better safe than sorry. Where, then?”

“You know the restaurant _SHIELD?”_

Stark nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been there once or twice.”

“A friend of mine runs it. I trust him with this. _With my life._  They close at eleven. Meet me there. Don’t tell anyone. No one can know. Not until we can make an arrest.”

The agents nodded.

*

Bucky was nervous.

It was almost eleven. The restaurant was empty. Steve had sent all the employees home early. Coulson and Stark would be there any minute.

They were about to kidnap and murder two FBI agents.

Bucky wrung his hands and paced around the restaurant.

Steve sat at a table for four, sipping a glass of wine. He was perfectly calm and collected. Understandable. He’d done this literally a hundred times before! Maybe not to a pair of FBI agents, but to people in general. Bucky was new to this. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. How was he supposed to act? Like normal, Steve had said but that was easier said than done. All Bucky could think about was how they were going to kill two people. He had dreamt about this, fantasised about it, but he never thought he’d actually be in a position to _do it._

It was both scary and exhilarating, as most things involving Steve seemed to be.

“Sit down, Bucky. Have some wine,” Steve told him. “Getting yourself all riled up doesn’t help anyone.”

Bucky ran his hands through his hair. “I’m just...nervous.”

Steve offered him a smile. It was a soft and warm thing, almost adoring. Maybe even _loving._

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you every step of the way. I’ll take good care of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And who knows? If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll even fuck you in the basement once we’re done with work.”

A chill ran down Bucky’s spine.

He inhaled a breath as deep as he could. He shuffled over to the table and sat down across from Steve. The chef poured him a glass of wine as well. Bucky sipped it slowly.

He was still shaking. The anticipation was bubbling to a boil inside him. He felt hot and flushed. His cheeks were warm with a pounding blush.

He stared into his wine and at his distorted reflection painted across its surface.

The door opened after some time. They both turned to look. Bucky’s heart jumped into his throat as he watched Coulson and Stark enter the restaurant. He got up quickly, moving to meet the agents.

“Thanks for coming,” Bucky said as he shook Coulson’s hand. “Really. _Thank you.”_

Coulson nodded. “If it leads to catching The Artist, it’s no trouble. Trust me.”

Bucky shook Stark’s hand too. “Especially if it’s a cop,” the young agent said. “Someone who swore to protect and serve.”

The CSI nodded to himself, swallowing his heart back down. “C’mon. L-Let’s sit. An- And I can tell ya what I know.”

The agents followed him back to the table, where Steve waited. Bucky made some introductions before they all sat down again. Steve offered the agents wine. Coulson declined, Stark accepted.

“Did you tell anyone you were comin’?” Bucky asked. “If this shit gets out somehow...”

“We understand, Barnes,” Stark said kindly. “We know how to be discrete. We kept it quiet. Far as anyone knows, we’re at the hotel.”

Bucky exhaled a sigh of faux relief, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Yeah. Of course. Sorry. I just... I’m a lil’... _rattled_  by this whole thing.”

“Understandable,” Coulson agreed. “This was...unexpected.”

Bucky glanced from the agent to Steve. The chef caught his gaze and gave him a minute tilt of his head. Bucky’s mouth went dry.

He shuffled his chair closer to the table. He wrung his hands in his lap, hiding them under the short tablecloth. He could feel the syringe taped to the underside of the table, waiting for it’s time to shine.

Steve nodded.

Bucky ripped the syringe out from under the table and lunged at Stark. He tackled the agent backwards, chair tipping with him. Bucky was on top of him and Stark must have been well and truly caught off guard. He had no time to fight Bucky before the needle was in his neck. Bucky slammed the plunger down.

Stark went limp under him in just a few seconds.

Bucky stared down at him.

At Stark’s lax body, eyes fallen closed, mouth open, arms spread out, suit rumpled, syringe sticking out of his neck.

Bucky’s heart pounded like a chorus of a thousand drums. His whole body felt soaked with sweat.

_Steve!_

He crawled off Stark and stumbled to stand, flinging himself around in search of Steve. The chef was in much more control of his situation.

Coulson was still in his seat, only leaned back and lax, as if having fallen asleep at dinner. But the image was perverted by the thick arm wrapped around his neck, pulling his head to one side to bare his neck, where Steve’s syringe was still embedded.

Steve slowly pulled the needle out. He cautiously removed himself from Coulson’s body, as if a little scared he might slump out of his seat if he was let go. Steve looked to Bucky, smiling like a predator again.

“You were a little sloppy,” he said, shrugging. ”Coulda been smoother. But I think you did pretty well for your first time.”

A tingling warmth spread through Bucky’s chest. Steve thought he did good. He thought Bucky did a good job.

Before he knew it, Bucky had rounded the body at his feet and the table beside him, and thrown himself at Steve, arms wrapping around his neck and mouth smashing against Steve’s. A breathy, desperate noise left Bucky as they kissed. Steve’s strong hands moved over his body, touching on every place that stung with pain and every place that burned with pleasure. The wound in Bucky’s side, and the pain that came when Steve pressed on it, made him moan.

Steve pushed him away. It made Bucky stagger and stumble back. His vision was hazy and fuzzy with anxiety and lust.

“C’mon,” Steve said with a curt tone. “We need to get them to the car and clean up here.”


	13. Rôti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Rôti](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/1Gif7uDjHQ7cBcGZ5oNWrW?si=2TEpXHc9SROoYZmxk4mZmA)

The basement looked the same as it had when Bucky was the one tied up.

Plastic sheets covered the walls, were spread out over the floor, a table of tools was set up neat and tidy.

There were some differences, though.

For one, Bucky wasn’t the the one tied up this time. Second, there were two victims instead of one. And third, Steve was not alone.

They were both dressed in the plastic suits, bodies completely covered and protected.

Bucky tried to stay focused on Steve’s sketchbooks. Steve had hundreds of sketches, plans, for victims. He was letting _Bucky_  pick which ones they were going to use. It was hard to stay focused, though.

The two unconscious FBI agents were drawing Bucky’s attention, simply by existing. Bucky wanted to stare at them. They...looked dead already. He knew they were just knocked out, he knew that, but they still seemed so _gone_  already. Bucky wondered how different they would look when they were _actually_  dead.

“Have you decided yet?”

Bucky tore his eyes away from the agents.

Steve stood over the table, carefully straightening out the already perfectly straight tools.

“Yes. I think so.”

He shuffled over to stand beside Steve. He showed the first sketch he had chosen.

In the drawing, the body was a woman; Bucky hoped Steve wouldn’t mind it being a man instead. She was strung up against a tree, wires tied to her like she was a marionette. She was in the middle of a pose. A pretty doll... There was a smile sewn to her face in large cross stitching, big buttons sewn to her eyelids. She had stitches over her chest as well, from throat to cunt. In a smaller drawing, there was a cross-section of her, to show what had been removed and replaced inside her. All her organs had been removed, made an empty shell. Instead, she had been filled with hay, just like a pretty doll would be.

Steve hummed. “Yes. I like that one. I was waiting for an opportunity to use it. I’m glad you chose it.”

Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat.

Bucky flipped a few pages, jumping forward to the next sketch he had picked.

A man sat slumped against a wall. He was a doll, as well. Bucky hadn’t even thought about that until that moment. He had a face just like the woman’s, a cross-stitched smile and buttons for eyes. His limbs had all been removed, cut off, then stitched back on with something that looked like rough yarn. Though, one arm lay free by his side, his head tipped towards it; it almost seemed as though he was looking at his arm, mourning what he’d lost.

There was a halo of crochet needles stabbed into his neck. His head looked ready to pop clean off. He had another halo around his midsection, though with knitting needles this time.

Just like the woman, his chest was cut open and stitched closed again, hay replacing all that _should_  have been inside him.

His skin was embroidered. Nothing too detailed, nothing that would take too long. Simple lines of colours painted across his body, no discernible rhyme or reason to them. Bucky liked them. They were...chaotic, and yet at the same time, perfectly ordered and planned. He could see that Steve had planned the pattern very carefully, but to an outsider, it would seem random, undecided, almost hesitant.

Bucky _really_  liked that one.

“Another good choice,” Steve agreed. “But then there’s the matter of which man for which sketch?”

Bucky turned to look at their victims.

“Coulson for the marionette. Stark for the rag-doll.”

“So we are in agreement, then.”

Bucky set the sketchpad aside on the table and eyed the tools.

“Where do we begin?” he wondered.

“We begin,” Steve said, and gestured to the two empty half gallon jugs that sat on the floor next to the table. ”-with draining some blood. We’ll only take two, maybe three pints. It’s perfect for use in sauce and such. And it’s nice to have a sip now and then.”

Bucky was getting chills.

They each grabbed a jug and placed one beside either their victims. Steve showed him a length of plastic tubing with a cannula attached to one end. He unscrewed the top of one of the jugs and let the uncapped end of the tube sit just inside its opening. Bucky watched with sharp, attentive eyes as Steve found a vein in the crook of Stark’s elbow and slid the cannula into it.

Bucky gasped with awe as the blood began to pour into the tube, through the tube, slowly, slowly, moving through the tube, pouring into the jug.

They watched and they waited.

The jug slowly filled. With each beat of Stark’s heart, more blood flooded out and filled the jug. It looked dark, almost black, through the clouded plastic the jug was made of. It was _beautiful._

As Stark drained, they moved on to Coulson. Steve repeated the process there easily. Bucky would like to try his hand at that, one day. Not yet. Not this soon. He was sure that needed a little more practice than Bucky currently had. He would hate to make a mess of their beautiful canvases with an uncertain prick of a needle.

Once the jugs were adequately filled, Steve removed the needles, pressing down on the spot of blood appearing on the arm to calm the bleed. He let the tube drain into the jug as much as was possible. He set the tubes and needles aside to be discarded, then capped the jugs and set those aside as well.

They moved back to their tools.

What was the next step, Bucky wondered.

Steve picked up a knife, showing it to him. “This is a Santoku knife. It’s like the chef’s knife,” he explained, pointing to the chef’s knife also laying on the table. ”-but the Santoku has a more precise cut. Saved for precision work.”

Bucky nodded, soaking up all the knowledge Steve was imparting on him.

“It’s good for the slice, the dice, and the chop,” Steve continued. “And right now, we’re going to use it to cut Coulson open. Then we’re gonna use this, the bird’s beak paring knife, to gently separate and remove his organs.”

The paring knife glinted as Steve picked it up. The blade was short and curved, like the bird’s beak it was named after.

“I usually just use this one because it’s smaller, so there’s less chance that the blade’ll nick one of the organs, or something. I find it easier to remain in full control of this blade in the small space of the chest cavity, than if I was using, for example, the Santoku for that too.”

Bucky listened intently. He was in awe of Steve’s knowledge, his skill. He wanted so badly to learn everything that Steve knew, everything Steve was willing to teach him and share with him.

“Here.”

Steve offered the handle of the Santoku to Bucky. His eyes went wide. Steve wanted _Bucky_  to do it? Bucky, though hesitant, carefully took the knife. It felt incredibly _heavy_  as he held it. But the weight, it felt...right, somehow. It felt good in his hand.

They moved to stand before their victims. They looked like death warmed over. Having been drained of that much blood, they of course weren’t in peak condition. It didn’t matter. Steve didn’t seem to mind it in the least.

“Cut from here to here.” Steve said, pointing on Coulson’s naked body. “You need to push but not too hard. You just need to break the skin and the muscle. Push too hard, and you’ll damage the organs. Think you can do it?”

Bucky’s hand sweated in the latex gloves. He gripped the knife tight.

“Here,” Steve said. “Put your other hand there.”

On orders, Bucky placed his left hand on Coulson’s shoulder.

“Hold the knife like this.”

Steve moved Bucky’s fingers for him, slightly changing his grip on the handle of the knife.

“Then just...”

He stood close at Bucky’s side. He held Bucky’s hand, which held the knife, controlling it for him. His body was pressed to Bucky’s.

Bucky gasped as the knife touched on Coulson’s pale skin. It was so sharp that the slightest touch brought shining red blood to seep forth. Bucky stared. The knife slid easily down the man’s chest, skin splitting open and blood flowing.

He had never seen something so beautiful before. It was a miracle playing out right in front of his eyes.

They cut him from the manubrium to the top of the pelvic cavity. Bucky was _amazed._  Coulson bled so magnificently. Bucky never wanted it to stop. He wished Coulson could bleed forever and Bucky could _watch it_  forever.

“There you go...” Steve said softly in Bucky’s ear. “Perfect.”

Steve let go of him. Bucky tried to steady his breathing again.

They moved to Stark.

“Try on your own,” Steve said.

Bucky swallowed. He adjusted his grip on the knife again. He stepped closer. He placed his hand on Stark’s shoulder. He put the knife against Stark’s chest, just under the dip of the manubrium between the collar bones.

He pushed the knife in, but not too hard. He didn’t want to hurt the organs. He had to find a good depth before he passed the sternum to the abdominal cavity. He moved the knife slower than Steve had done but Steve said nothing about it. The blade was sharp as hell, it cut through the skin and muscle _so easily._  It was almost difficult to comprehend how amazing this _experience_ was.

_“Yes,_  just like that...” Steve whispered behind Bucky.

*

Bucky was set to work on Stark.

He parted the limbs from the body with a surprisingly powerful electric carving knife. He was unused to the process; Steve had to help him out now and then, give him some pointers and guide him right. Bucky piled the limbs on the floor next to the chair and laid the torso out on the floor as well, a bit away.

They stuffed the bodies with rags instead of hay. With more time to prepare, Steve would have brought home hay, somehow, he said, but rags would have to do. Bucky felt bad for messing up the carefully planned artwork, despite how Steve assured him that it was alright; rags would be just _fine._  Bucky sewed the chest together again with rough black thread, putting in careful stitches evenly and neatly.

Steve brought out a box of supplies; things he had prepared for future scenes to save himself time and effort when the time came to work. Bucky decided to start with the embroidering. That would take up most of his time, so it was best to start getting through it.

“Should I follow the patterns in the sketch?”

Steve hummed. He halted in his work on the other doll, looking up as though in thought.

“No,” he said finally. “I think you deserve a chance to try things for yourself. Of course, I’ll have to inspect them before we finish up.”

Bucky’s heart fluttered with excitement. His cheeks felt warm and rosy with a blush under his mask. Steve was giving him free reins on this? He couldn’t believe Steve was trusting him with this, putting something of this magnitude in Bucky’s inexperienced hands.

He wouldn’t disappoint Steve.

Bucky picked out a sewing needle and a light blue thread to start with.

He sat down on the floor with one of the doll’s arms in his lap. He started sewing. He began at the tip of the middle finger. He had a design in mind, which he hoped would turn out on the body to be at least somewhat _close_  to what he was picturing.

It would, as mentioned, begin at the middle finger, then snake its way up the back of the hand; it would circle loosely around the wrist, and continue to spiral up the arm to the shoulder. He’d layer with more colours, perhaps two or three more, to make it really _pop._  Once he sewed the arm back on, he could join the colours up with the ones he’d be putting on the torso itself. It was a simple start, but if all went well, it would turn out beautifully in the end.

Bucky focused intently on his work. This was something he did _not_  want to ruin. This needed to be _perfect._  There couldn’t be any mistakes. If there were, what would Steve say? What would Steve think if Bucky put forth sub-par work? He’d be so disappointed in Bucky. Maybe he’d even be _angry._  Bucky didn’t want to upset Steve in any way. All he wanted in life was to make Steve happy! If Bucky did a good job, it would make Steve happy, so Bucky _had to_  do good.

There was no room for mistakes.

He hadn’t sewn in years. Not since his mom taught him how to patch the holes in his old shirts and sew the buttons back on his jacket.

He worked with the utmost care. He remembered every single tip and trick that his mother had shown him, carefully following the pattern he could with his mind’s eye see sprawling itself out over the doll’s skin.

Now and then, he stopped. He paused, and looked up.

He watched Steve.

He looked like a miracle made flesh. He was beyond incredible. He was like a gift from God. The hand of God had reached down from Heaven and touched the earth and it created _Steve._  Bucky couldn’t believe how lucky he had been, to have been _noticed_  by Steve, to have been _sought out_  by Steve, to be _wanted_  by Steve. He couldn’t understand how Steve wanted _him,_  of all people.

Bucky was lost for him; he was lost in him, in his magic.

He was _lost_  and he didn’t want to be found.


	14. Salad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Salad](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/30f5JJDp48cstHu1zEbluJ?si=FTDFQhR3RAuiOsNjpDqWSg)

The atmosphere was tense as they arrived at the scene.

Everyone’s expressions were dark and grim.

That was always the way of things, when a brother in blue was the body they were called to see.

Clint and Natasha were quiet as they lead Bucky through the park. The usual banter that carried on between them was nowhere to be seen. They hung their heads.

Bucky did the same. He had been to cop killings before. He knew how to act. He knew the procedure of things. He knew how to carry himself.

He took a deep breath as they reached the scene.

A tall oak tree with thick, old branches sitting low on the truck. Just high enough where they had only needed a simple step-ladder to be able to hang Coulson up. He kept that to himself. Coulson hung only a few inches above the dewy grass. The slow breeze made him dangle slowly. Stark sat at the foot of the tree. His button eyes looked to the severed arm laying in the grass just a few short feet away. His skin was painted with careful stitching, patterns indescribable.

They were beautiful.

The way the morning sun hit them... It took Bucky’s breath away.

“They’ve checked for footprints?” Bucky asked before moving any closer.

“Yeah,” Natasha said lowly. “Nothing. He raked the grass around the tree. Obscured his prints all the way back to the path. We got nothin’.”

Bucky nodded.

Steve had made certain that Bucky raked the grass very carefully as they left.

He swallowed dryly. He set his gear aside and pulled his camera out. He had already taken pictures of them while he and Steve were posing them, as well as a few while they were working on them in the basement. He had been careful to hide those photos away before bringing his camera to the crime scene.

Even as he studied the bodies now, Bucky was sure to watch the people around himself as well. He wanted to tell Steve every detail. He took pictures of them when he could, capturing their distraught and disgusted faces. Steve would love it.

Bucky liked Natasha’s face the most. She stared at the bodies with a look that was forcibly made blank. Her eyes were glazed, she was a million miles away. She was probably thinking about what she could have done to stop this, to prevent it; if she had only caught The Artist, this would never have happened. Her lip quivered now and then. She wanted to say something, it appeared. Bucky wondered what she wanted to say, what she wanted to tell them, what it was that she wished so dearly that they could hear. Perhaps an apology...

He went through the motions of examining the bodies. He took all the usual samples and so on. He did everything as he always did at a crime scene. He had to keep up appearances, but he knew the tests would yield no results.

After they had finished with the bodies, they had cleaned up the basement and the blood, and changed out the plastic sheeting for new, clean ones. They had changed their suits and gloves and everything, to new, clean ones. They had scrubbed the bodies with disinfectant first, and then with bleach, only mildly diluted. Even as they moved the bodies to the scene for posing, they had been dressed in another iteration of protections. There would be no traces on the bodies.

There would be _nothing._

*

The precinct carried the same atmosphere as the crime scene had.

It was tense and quiet. No one wanted to speak. The detectives sat at their desks in the bullpen, hunched over their work, trying to focus.

Bucky stood just outside the break room. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, his phone in the other, and leaned back casually against the wall. Now and then, he could sneak more pictures. He hated that the quality was much lower on these ones; his phone camera wasn’t _nearly_  as good as the DSLR he used for work, of course.

He was quite sure that Steve would still enjoy them. As long as he got to see their faces, Bucky was certain Steve would be happy with them.

It would be the perfect gift for Steve.

He had had the idea while they had worked on posing the bodies. Steve had mentioned he was sad that he never got to see the reactions of the police officers attending his scenes, and especially this one, where the bodies were those of fellow men of the law. Bucky had thought of this right away. Giving Steve the chance to see those reactions, when he had _never_  gotten to do it before? Steve would be so happy.

*

Steve smiled as he opened the door to see Bucky waiting. Bucky smiled back.

Steve invited him in, of course. They sat down in the living room, in front of the TV. Bucky got actual _chills_  when Steve lay his arm around Bucky’s shoulders as casual as ever. He felt so _special!_  He still just couldn’t believe that Steve cared about _him._

“I have a gift for you,” Bucky said softly after the show Steve had been watching went to commercials.

“Oh?” Steve said, turning to Bucky with another blinding smile. “What’s the occasion?”

Bucky shook his head minutely. “No occasion. I just... I just wanted to give you something,” he said. “You’ve given _me_  so much, I wanted to give something back, y’know?”

The other man’s smile went soft at that. Affectionate. Fond.

Bucky grabbed his backpack, which he had brought along to sit on the floor by his feet. He quickly dug out the Manila envelope he had had to use as ‘wrapping paper’. He wished he had had something better on hand, but he hoped Steve wouldn’t mind. He offered the envelope to Steve.

Steve accepted it with a slightly confused expression on his face.

Bucky said nothing, only waiting. Steve opened the envelope and peeked inside. He looked even more confused. Still, he carefully removed the newly printed stack of photos. He set the envelope aside and began to flip through the pictures.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort, Bucky, but...” he said.

Bucky understood. Steve probably hadn’t thought much more about that throw-away comment after he’s said it.

“Sorry, yeah, um... You said you were sad you didn’t get to see the looks on their faces,” he tried to explain. “So I thought... Y’know, with me on the scene, maybe you _could_  see their faces.”

Steve’s eyes widened. He stared at Bucky for a moment.

He looked back down at the photos. He flipped through them faster, taking them in, absorbing what they showed as quickly as he could.

When he was done, he looked back up at Bucky.

“This is... Bucky, this is _incredible,”_  he said. “They’re beautiful.”

Bucky’s stomach tingled and twisted in the most perfect way at the praise.

“Sorry about the quality on a few of ‘em. Had to take the ones at the precinct with my phone.”

Steve shook his head. “No. No, don’t be sorry. It’s amazing. They’re amazing.”

His hand came to rest on Bucky’s arm and the touch made Bucky’s skin burn with how _good_  it felt.

 _“You’re_  amazing.”

Steve tossed the stack of photos onto the coffee table only a little carelessly. Bucky didn’t mind. He didn’t mind it at all, when Steve was all but pouncing on him, pushing him down to lay across the couch. Steve’s mouth on his felt as brilliant as it did every time.

God, Steve was on top of him and he was kissing him and his hands were everywhere, their bodies pressing together in the most perfect ways. In no time at all, Bucky was hard beyond belief, ready to burst and cum at the slightest touch, but he forced it back; he smoothed the want and the burn, he quelled the flames. He wanted to be good for Steve, he wouldn’t do a single thing until Steve gave him the order.

He moaned as he felt the hard bulge of Steve’s crotch grind against his own. Fuck, it felt like he was about to explode.

“Thank you, baby, thank you so much,” Steve murmured against Bucky’s neck, mouthing and kissing at the soft skin there.

Shit, Bucky wanted to feel his teeth so badly.

“Such a pretty gift you made for me, baby,” he continued. “Makes me feel real special...”

Bucky moaned again. He dug his fingers into the cushions of the couch, holding on for dear life. He hadn’t been given permission to touch but God, he wanted to. He wanted to run his hands all over Steve’s body and feel every inch of his skin and feel the power radiating from him.

He tried to roll his hips against Steve’s. He just needed a little more friction. He was already on the verge, he just needed that last little push.

Steve hushed him softly. His hands pet Bucky’s face and his hair, soothing him.

“Don’t cum, baby. Be good for me, now.”

It made Bucky whine like a bitch in heat. He nodded, though, and bit his lip and tried his hardest to keep from cumming.

Steve placed feather-light kisses on Bucky’s neck, down to his collarbones and up along his jaw. Bucky could cry with how good it felt.

“I want to give you something in return.”

Bucky grabbed harder at the couch cushions. His whole body was trembling.

“Would you like to go to the basement?”

Bucky gasped. Just those words almost had him disobeying orders.

_“Answer me.”_

The man whined again. “Y-Yes! Please, yes, yes. Please...”

“Good boy,” Steve whispered.

He nipped at Bucky’s throat, and Bucky felt hot tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He wanted it so bad. He wanted Steve so bad, wanted anything and everything Steve could give him.

Steve lifted himself off of Bucky and off the couch. He stood over Bucky, smirking at the mess of a man that he was.

“Go downstairs. Lay out a plastic sheet on the floor. Prepare the ropes for me. When you’re done, undress and kneel on the sheet. Wait for me.”

Bucky looked up at him with vision made hazy by tears. He looked like an angel. He looked like a sliver of heaven. Bucky’s very own paradise.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky choked out.

*

His knees ached from the cold, hard concrete.

It felt like he’d been waiting for an eternity.

He’d been good, though. He’d done as he was told.

The floor was covered by a fresh sheet of plastic. He had unfolded the table and placed the rope on it. He had carefully unwound the rope from the spool, then coiled it around his arm; holding the end tight in his hand, winding the rope down around his elbow then up through his hand, and on and on like that. It would be a good four meters if his eye-balling of it was right. He hoped that would be enough. It was impossible for him to say, though, since he had no clue how Steve intended to use it. He hope it was enough. He hoped Steve would be proud of him.

The stairs creaked.

Bucky inhaled a sharp breath.

“Stand up.”

Bucky slowly rose to his feet. Steve crossed the room from the stairs behind Bucky, coming into Bucky’s sight. He didn’t stop until he reached the table. He picked up the coil of rope.

“Very good,” he said. “This should be enough.”

He turned and smiled. Bucky’s heart warmed at the sight of him and at the praise. His cock throbbed and leaked, he wanted whatever Steve would give him.

He was made to widen his stance somewhat. The ropes wrapped around his right thigh a handful of times, before Steve knotted it off. He then wrapped it around Bucky’s right wrist, tying his wrist to his thigh. Bucky swallowed. He wouldn’t be able to do anything at all with his hands. He’d be perfectly at Steve’s mercy. Steve pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the rope. He tied another cuff from Bucky’s left thigh to his left wrist.

“How does it feel?”

Bucky licked his dry lips. “I like it. It feels good.”

“On your knees.”

Bucky lowered himself back down to the cold floor, kneeling again.

Steve walked away towards the stairs, moving out of Bucky’s sight for a few moments. Thankfully, he wasn’t gone long. He returned swiftly and he had a bottle in one hand, filled with a dark liquid that Bucky couldn’t identify.

“You know what this is?” Steve asked, holding up the bottle.

“No, sir.”

“I think you’ll like it. Close your eyes. Lean your head forward.”

Bucky let his eyes fall closed and his head fall forward. He waited.

He listened.

There was some shuffling. The plastic sheets crinkled as Steve moved.

Bucky’s body went tense as a cold and thick liquid was poured over him.

It hit the top of his head, matting down his hair, flowing down both the back of his neck and over his face. It moved in rivulets down his neck and chest, at the same time dripping into his lap.

“Look at me.”

He lifted his head and opened his eyes. Steve was naked. He kneeled in front of Bucky. Bucky looked down at his own body.

Blood. He was covered in blood.

It was a dark, wine red. It wasn’t fresh. Whose blood was it?

“It’s Stark’s.”

Stark’s blood...

Beautiful.

He was soaked with it, drenched by it. He felt beautiful already.

Steve leaned in towards him. Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his eyes, lids fluttering closed, when he felt Steve’s hot, wet tongue drag up along his throat, tasting his skin and the blood together.

They kissed. Steve pulled Bucky to him, their bodies pressing together; fuck, Bucky couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. The blood smeared over them, wet and sticky, staining Steve’s perfect pale skin too.

He made Bucky lay down. The concrete was cold under him, the plastic sheets doing nothing for it. He poured more blood over Bucky’s body, down his thighs, it was everywhere. Steve was between his legs, his amazing tongue tasting the blood again, finding its way to the tight furl of Bucky’s hole. _God, Bucky could die when he felt Steve’s tongue inside him._

Bucky was in heaven.


	15. Cold Dish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Cold Dish](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/1WKEkjaGXJ0wj86CvT6XAI?si=x9fo287oRkyo1uT5Y1basQ)

They lay cuddled together in bed.

Bucky was curled around Steve’s warm body, and Steve wrapped around him, holding him, protecting him.

Bucky’s body was sore and ached like hell; he still felt completely raw from last night. Steve tore him to pieces in all the best ways. He stripped Bucky out of his skin (only figuratively, as of yet) and laid bare his very soul, ripping and cutting and tearing the pleasure out of him. Bucky loved it more than he could ever hope to put into words.

“Bucky?”

The man grunted. He nuzzled against Steve’s chest, curling closer if that was even possible.

(Art by [kittyandmulder)](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/intermediary/f/98d4a3bc-3590-42ac-9ded-4a003f368f9a/dd13dbe-9dae59ed-533b-4366-a806-476cf7663849.png)

 

“You would do _anything_  for me, right?”

Bucky didn’t feel capable of speaking quite yet but nodded against Steve’s body. Steve pet his hair. It was still matted with blood here and there. Steve hadn’t managed to get it all out before tucking Bucky into bed last night. Bucky would have to shower later but _uch,_  that meant _leaving bed._

“Anything I wanted you to do?”

 _“Mmh...”_  Bucky hummed, nodding slowly again.

“And if I said I wanted to... If I had an idea for you?” Steve said. “I’d make a _mystery_  out of you.”

A mystery?

Despite his aching body, he forced himself to lift his head, to look at Steve, to meet his eyes. There was something cloudy in Steve’s eyes. Something dark, something curious. Bucky was incredibly intrigued.

Bucky nodded. The curiosity seemed to swell at his response.

Steve pet his hair, guiding his head back to lay on Steve’s chest, allowing him to rest again.

“I would hide you. I’d hide you away.” Steve murmured into the top of Bucky’s head, whispering a love-note to him. “Somewhere they would never, and _could_  never, find you. It would _taunt_  them forever. Wouldn’t it be _amazing?”_

It did sound interesting.

Bucky might never be seen by another human again, but... At the same time, he would become a legend. _A myth._  They’d whisper about him for years to come. What could be more beautiful than that?

“You’d be my secret for forever. No matter how hard they tried, they’d never get me to tell. It would be you and me... _Forever._  I’d be yours and you’d be mine. No one could get between us.”

Bucky’s heart pitter-pattered against his ribs, his whole body shivering at the thought.

Him and Steve, forever. Just them. No one else. No one could get between them. Steve would be his and he would be Steve’s, like it was meant to be. They would forever be mentioned in one and the same breath. Never apart, always together.

“I’d carry you with me always. You’d always be with me. My secret. Mine and mine alone. No one else would get to have you.”

He loved how that sounded. He loved everything Steve was saying.

It sounded amazing. It sounded beautiful and incredible and _perfect._  He wanted that, he wanted everything about that. He wanted nothing more in the world.

“Yes,” he managed to say.

His voice was broken and wheezing. It was still tired from the screaming, the crying, the begging.

“I want it...”

Steve’s chest vibrated as he hummed. He hugged Bucky tight for just a moment, pressing soft kisses to his head. Ache panged through Bucky’s body at the hug but he didn’t mind. He didn’t care. Steve was made of pleasure and pain, and Bucky loved both parts equally.

“I love you, Steve...”

The chef’s warm hands caressed Bucky’s naked body.

“I don’t know if I’m capable of love. But if I am... I love you too.”

With a swift motion, Steve rolled them both over. Bucky landed on his back, his hair falling into his face. He blew out a hard breath, shooing the stray strands away as best he could. Steve seemed to hover over him.

God, he _glowed._

He shone. The sun sat behind his head, making a halo of perfect, blinding light. Bucky wanted to stare at him forever, even if it blinded him.

Steve smiled down at him.

He leaned in, lowering himself to meet Bucky. The kiss was soft and sweet, chaste as the Virgin Mary.

“You can touch me,” Steve said, breaking the kiss for only a moment.

God, _yes._

Bucky reached out. His fingers landed gently on Steve’s sides. He felt the warm, soft skin as Steve kissed him again.

Steve moved quickly. He lifted himself away for a moment, reaching to the nightstand, searching through the drawer, finding the lube. He sat up and poured a good amount into his hand, spreading it over his fingers.

The man came to him again, thank God.

They kissed like fire. It did not rage, though. It was no wildfire, it was no arson, it was no napalm burning away everything it touched.

It was a soft flicker in a fireplace. A comforting flame that lapped at Bucky’s skin, warming and soothing him down to the bone.

Bucky moaned into it as Steve’s fingers pushed inside him. Even after the night’s sleep, Bucky was still loose and open from last night, ready like never before, just for Steve. Only Steve, never anyone else, no one but his beautiful, perfect Steve. He wanted to serve Steve forever, he wanted to give Steve every piece of himself for forever and ever.

Bucky pushed Steve away, making him stop and look down at Bucky with confusion in his eyes.

He pushed Steve again, made him fall onto his side on the bed, next to Bucky. He moved as quickly as he could, though with his sore body that wasn’t very quickly.

He straddled Steve’s body. Steve finally seemed to understand. His hands squeezed at Bucky’s thighs, moving up to his waist.

Steve smiled. “You are...so beautiful.”

Bucky raised himself up for a moment. He lead Steve’s cock to his hole and let himself sink onto it. He let it find its way so deep inside him.

“Beautiful,” the chef said.

Bucky rolled his body against Steve’s, fucking himself slowly on him.

“Perfect.”

Bucky moaned. Steve’s hands felt so good on his body.

_“Stupendous.”_

Bucky leaned in and captured Steve’s perfect, soft lips in a kiss.

They felt incredible together like that.

When it was just them, only the two of them, the universe didn’t exist outside the world they made together.

Fuck, Bucky felt so good, he was burning up from the inside, he felt like he was melting, it was _crazy,_  he’d never felt anything like that before. He’d never felt so right and whole and complete as he did when Steve was _inside him._

They _moved_  magnificently together. Bucky could go blind with pleasure as he rode Steve’s perfect cock.

Steve’s hand were on his neck and his face, running through Bucky’s hair and caressing his face, treating him like a most precious treasure.

Hands wrapped around Bucky’s throat. He gasped for air. Steve squeezed on his throat. He fucked into Bucky, fast and hard. He choked and fucked brilliant pleasure out of Bucky.

The world seemed fuzzy around the edges, dark spots floating through his vision. Oh, God, it was so good even though he couldn’t fucking breathe. Everything was spinning, every inch of his body felt electrified and alive like never before.

It felt like his head was exploding when he finally came, when he reached _the perfect peak of pleasure._

He was on his back somehow; hard to tell how it happened, but he felt the soft sheets on his back and Steve was hovering over him and Steve’s hands were still around his throat.

 _“I love you, Bucky,”_  Steve said.

His voice sounded floaty and distant, far away, but...he was smiling. Oh, God, his smile was beautiful. He squeezed tighter. Bucky grabbed at Steve’s wrists. The world pulsed in an odd way, in time with his heartbeat. Steve was on top of him. It felt like he was sinking into the mattress as his breath ran out. His survival instincts tried to kick in. He tried to pull on Steve’s wrists and get them off his throat and let him breathe again, but he was powerless under him.

“You’ll be beautiful, Bucky,” Steve said. “Forever. Just for me.”

Yes... Yes, he would be beautiful. He would be beautiful just for Steve. Forever.

He let go of Steve’s wrists, stopped fighting it, let it happen, let Steve do whatever he wanted.

He closed his eyes.

Steve’s beautiful smile was etched into the back of his eyelids. It would be with him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittyandmulder:  
> [tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)  
> [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)  
> [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)
> 
> thats the last of kitty and mulders amazing art! a huge thank you to both kitty and mulder for their hard work, and their incredible talent. I cant put into words how grateful i am for the co-operation we had through this bang <3 <3
> 
> one piece from chalenmimi remains, so stick around for that! trust me, its just as incredible as their previous pieces! <3


	16. Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Sweets](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/3W38jurV8eAckdGgwrWsRv?si=URTio_mYSVmqCkpgCUxXpg)

He had Bucky on one table, his tools on the other.

A few hours had passed. The body had gone cold and pale.

He was so beautiful. Steve hardly knew what to do with him. How could he improve on perfection?

He stood over him, watching his sweet face.

“What am I gonna do with you, Bucky?” he mused, mostly to himself. “I have some ideas, of course, but... I’m afraid I’ll ruin you. I mean, you don’t finger-paint on the Mona Lisa, right?”

His gloved hand pet Bucky’s hair. His hair was a tangled mess, blood having clotted up all throughout.

“I wanna make something of you that’ll be worthy of bein’ made outta _you,_ but... I’m not sure any of my ideas are _that_  good.”

Hm...

Steve sat down. He watched the body. He considered his options.

Like he told Bucky, he _had_  thought about leaving a mystery with this one, his final installation, his last work of art. Something that would make the people scratch their heads long after Steve himself was gone from the world. That way, his art would always remain.

It was an interesting idea. A more modern and abstract piece, than his usual style. His usual work was pretty simple and straightforward. It was what it looked like. This one, though, would be more open to interpretation, he supposed.

The thought made him...curious.

Yes, he knew what to do.

He picked up the electric carving saw. He placed his hand on Bucky’s forehead to keep his head still, then put the saw to his throat.

It was a shame to take away his beautiful face, but... It would be worth it. In the end, it would be well worth it.

*

It was time. This was the right time. It had finally come. Everything was ready. He had made all the preparations he could.

This was it. He could feel it.

He had put beauty into the world. He had made art and shared it with the world. He had been generous and let people _feed_  on that art, that beauty; he had given them the greatest gift in the world. He had fed them pure, unadulterated _beauty._

But now it was time.

It was _his_  time, his turn. It was his turn to become beautiful.

He stood in the basement, naked. He stared at himself in the tall mirror he had brought down there. He could see the art on his skin already. He just needed to make it visible to everyone else.

Steve put the knife to his thigh, to start with. He didn’t cut deep, nor shallow. It would just be enough to leave scars. It would be perfect. Everyone would be able to see.

Always.

Forever.

The pain was bearable. Manageable. He took great care. As soon as he finished a section, he stopped the bleeding. He dabbed the wounds with disinfectant and wrapped them up in gauze. He couldn’t finish if he bled out, of course. He had to be careful. This was a procedure that had to be performed with the utmost precision and care.

The patterns blossomed from the first cut. They bloomed across his body like flowers. It was too bad that he had to cover them with gauze but it was sadly a must. Thankfully, he could still see the patterns in his mind. They glowed on his body, shining through the gauze.

He would be beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	17. Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Dessert](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/3YnYd500HoU3Pzrknwedgt?si=xvfVBTC8SOawTtkbSYQ6og)

He limped into the police station. The cuts on the soles of his feet still ached. He could feel the blood start to seep through his shoes. He would no doubt start leaving tracks soon. No matter. He didn’t have much farther to go.

He dragged the suitcase behind him. It was heavy. God, he was actually _nervous!_  He didn’t think he’d be nervous but he was. It was a little surprising. Did nervosity count as an emotion? Maybe he wasn’t a psychopath, after all.

He saw the redhead from Bucky’s photos. He headed for her. She seemed to sense that she was being watched. She looked up quickly, meeting his gaze. Steve tried to smile but he supposed the gauze wrapped sloppily around his head was obscuring it. The redhead’s partner noticed Steve as well.

“Hello. Are you homicide detectives?” Steve asked as he reached their desks, which were placed just next to each other.

They glanced at one another. “Yeah. I’m Barton, she’s Romanov,” the man replied. “How can we help you?”

“I have something to show you,” Steve told them. “It’s in my suitcase. Detective Barton, can you help me? Heavy lifting is quite painful for me, with my injuries.”

Barton hummed and pulled himself out of his desk-chair. He pulled the chair with him around the desk to meet Steve. He picked up the heavy suitcase, with a small grunt of exertion, and laid it down on its side on the seat of his chair.

“Go ahead,” Steve said. “Open it.”

The detective slowly unzipped the suitcase. He lifted the top for only a split-second before slamming it shut again. He pulled the zipper closed.

“Tasha?”

“Yeah?”

“Cuff him,” Barton said, then turned to the rest of the room. “Someone get CSI up here! _Now!”_

Romanov got out of her seat, pulling her cuffs off her belt. Steve held his hands out to her, baring his wrists.

“What’s in the bag, Clint?” she asked as she closed the cuffs around Steve’s wrists.

Barton finally looked at her, a grim expression on his face. His throat clicked as he swallowed dryly.

“Body.”

Romanov’s pretty face fell, sinking into a similarly grim look.

Steve smiled. He couldn't wait until they figured out their patterns matched, his and Bucky's. Completely mirrored, the same but apart, two parts of the whole.

_Perfect._


	18. Coffee and Cigars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Coffee and Cigars](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/1AE2tD4YDv15eadLNdXdxg?si=gWNQOgRYQS-IcvDpklxvAw)

Steve woke up in a hospital bed.

There was a police officer by the door. Steve’s wrists were cuffed to the bed. There was a needle in his arm, pumping blood into him. Yes, he had probably lost a decent amount, it was good to get topped off again. There was a clear IV bag as well. Hm, he felt a little groggy. The bag likely contained a nice cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics, as well as some kind of mild sedatives to keep him _manageable._

It would be a decently big needle they put in his arm. Could be a good starter weapon. He could do some very nice damage with a needle like this one. It would do well enough to take out the officer at the door, at least. Then he could take the officer’s weapons.

But he wasn’t planning to escape. Not yet, at least.

The officer noticed he was awake. He spoke into his radio, relaying the update. Steve waited.

Only a few moments passed before the door opened. The detectives Barton and Romanov stepped inside, ordering the officer out of the room.

Their faces were as dark and grim as they had been in the precinct and in Bucky’s photos. Why were they so upset? Couldn’t they see the incredible art he had shown them?

“Mister Rogers,” Romanov said. “We are running tests on the body you came in with, since it carried no identification and...had no head.”

Steve hummed. He was waiting for the question.

“If you tell us who it is before the tests come back, we can tell the judge you’ve cooperated with the investigation,” Barton said.

“What exactly is it you’re asking me, detectives?”

They were both seething. They wanted to tear him to shreds.

 _“Who is it?”_  Romanov bit.

Her voice was cold and steely, sharp as Steve’s favourite carving knife.

Steve hummed. “Wait. Your tests will tell you soon enough.”

Barton took a step towards Steve, as if to lunge at him and beat him to death. Romanov stopped him, held him back. The man growled, fists clenched tight, begging to hit Steve.

 _“Walk it off,_  Clint,” the woman ordered him. “I’ll handle this.”

Barton huffed and puffed and stormed out, the door slamming behind him. Steve kept his eyes on the woman. She was beautiful; he could have made something incredible out of her. He’d bet good money she _tasted_  great too.

She pulled up a chair and sat down next to his bed.

“Water?” she asked, nodding to the pitcher and glasses sitting on his side-table.

“Yes, please,” he replied.

Her smile was kind but controlled. She poured him a glass swiftly and found straws in the drawer of the side-table. She held the glass for him, his cuffed wrists making it impossible for him to do it himself, guiding the straw roughly to where his mouth was. It would be hard for her to tell exactly with how he was wrapped in gauze. Steve drank slowly for a few moments. It washed away the dry taste of cotton the drugs put in his mouth.

“Thank you, detective,” he said as she finally set the glass aside.

“Not at all, Mister Rogers,” she told him. “How are you feeling? The doctors said your wounds were...self-inflicted.”

Steve hummed. “Yes.”

“May I ask why? _If_  there is a particular reason, of course.”

“You may not.”

“Then let’s talk about something else, shall we? Let’s talk about the body.”

Steve contained a smile.

“Tell me who it is,” she said. “We’re gonna find out soon enough anyway. Why don’t you win yourself some good faith with the judge and just _tell me?”_

Steve hummed. The remote for his bed lay just beside his cuffed left hand. He picked it up and raised the bed slightly, helping him sit up. What had been a stab of pain before was now a dull ache, thanks to the drugs being pumped into his bloodstream. His skin throbbed with pain. It pulsed through him with every beat of his heart.

“He would’ve been sad to hear you didn’t recognize him. He was a beautiful man before, and even more so now,” he said. “I admit, it’s a shame you don’t get to see his face. I always thought Bucky’s smile was incredible.”

Romanov’s eyes widened. She inhaled a sharp gasp.

“Bucky...?”

Steve nodded.

“He was so happy to die for me. He was smiling even when I wrapped my hands around his throat.”

 _“No,”_  the detective bit. “I don’t believe you.”

“You can believe whatever you want. It doesn’t change the truth.”

She looked like she wanted to rip him to pieces.

“He gave himself to me. He let me make art out of him. That’s what I am, detective. I’m an artist. In fact, I’m _The_  Artist. You’ve been hunting me for years.”

She seemed speechless.

“So, detective. _Here I am.”_

*

Steve bit his tongue as he lifted his arm. Even with the drugs, moving too much was still painful. He clicked the pen and put it to the paper. He signed his name on the dotted line, his name printed just underneath for clarification.

There it was. His full confession.

The document was... It was more of a _stack_  than anything else. It was ten years worth of murder. It was bound to take some time to tell the full scope of it.

He clicked the pen again. He set it down. He gave the document a small nudge towards the one-eyed man standing at his bedside.

“Captain Fury,” he said, looking up at the tall man.

“Mister Rogers,” the Captain mirrored as he locked the cuff back around Steve’s right wrist. “Mister Sitwell.”

Steve glanced over at the pudgy, suit-clad man standing at the other side of his bed, the lawyer he had hired for himself. Steve disliked him. He looked like he was more marbling than meat. He wouldn’t have cooked up very well.

“Are you certain you don’t want to tell us where to find Barnes’ head?” Fury said.

His voice was calm and collected, but he was disturbed by it, by having to ask such a question. Anyone would be, Steve supposed. It was an odd question to have to pose to someone.

Sitwell leaned in close to Steve to advise him.

“Tell him,” Sitwell ordered lowly. “Cooperation makes the judge like you.”

Steve hummed.

He looked up at Fury again as Sitwell stepped back.

Fury looked at him expectantly.

“It’s somewhere you’ll never find it.”

Sitwell exhaled a slow breath. Fury’s lips pursed tightly. This wasn’t going as either of them had wished it to.

Steve didn’t mind about them. As long as things went as _he_  wanted them to, he didn’t mind much about anything at all.

*

His face was all over the news. All the news outlets were using the photo of him from the restaurant’s website. No one chose to use his mugshot.

He supposed he could see why; it would probably have been too gruesome to show that to the unprepared minds of the public just yet. The police had had to remove the gauze wraps from his head to get a decent photo. His face had been a beautiful mess of cuts and dried blood and a handful of haphazard stitches to keep him together. _At least he was smiling._

Every anchor on every news show looked positively _green_  as they retold his undertakings. He loved it, even though they only told it in broad strokes.

_“Steve Rogers’ trial has been set for Thursday, two days from now. Thanks to Rogers turning himself in and his delivery of a full confession, the investigatory process was significantly hastened and charges could be filed almost immediately after his arrest. The presiding judge also stated that she would prefer to handle this case as soon and as quickly as possible, so that they can finally afford some peace to the families of Rogers’ many victims.”_

Steve turned off the TV.

Two days.

Two days until his trial.

That was sooner than he had anticipated. He had foreseen that things would be rushed for him, paperwork pushed through, the whole system sped up to get him behind bars as soon as possible, but this was still sooner than he would have liked.

And as much as he would _love_  to sit in front of a crowd and tell them each and every beautiful detail of his work, he couldn’t risk being sent to prison. Breaking out of prison was...a complicated matter. The chance of Steve getting his beautiful happily ever after would be much smaller.

He had to move up his time table and get moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go!
> 
> there will be one chapter tomorrow, and the last chapter will be up the day after!! we're almost there!!


	19. Check, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Check, Please](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/3pxU62EslF8jOBCu8LUx92?si=PoFHYhJXTeGSJV-pC4Po7A)

Steve kept his eyes closed as he worked. The police officer was still standing by the door.

His covers were pulled up high, almost all the way up to his chin. A nurse had tucked him in earlier when he told her he felt cold.

His hands were hidden by the covers. He wormed his fingers in under his paper robe, to the gauze wraps. He pushed and tugged on them. His skin was bare underneath. The stitched up cuts still ached when he touched them. Then again, he had never really cared too much about pain. He knew it would always pass soon enough, so why be bothered by it?

He ripped open the stitches near the top of his right thigh. It was _just_  within reach of his cuffed hand. Perfect. His fingers dug into the re-opened wound. Where was it? It had to be there, right where he left it, right where _he put it._

_There._

Three inches of steel wire.

He fished it out of his own flesh. He tried his best to dry the blood off on the sheets, making his motions as subtle as possible. The officer at the door couldn’t find him out _now._

He bent the wire carefully, near one end. Then, just up from the first bend, he bent it a second time.

He felt around with the makeshift key, tapping its end against the cuffs carefully. He released a slow, deep breath as the wire slipped into the keyhole. He twisted and turned his key slowly. He felt for it, he felt for the little _pop_  of the key falling into position and the locking mechanism unlatching. He waited, he waited. He twisted slowly.

_Click..._

Steve inhaled a sharp breath. He could feel the cuff coming loose. With small, careful motions, he worked his wrist fully out of the cuff, still hidden under the covers.

The officer hadn’t made a sound yet.

He hadn’t noticed.

Steve repeated the process on his left side. It was harder there; his left hand was his non-dominant. It had taken a lot of training to get it right. His movements were carefully practised. He recounted each step in detail in his mind as he executed them. He had full control of each motion, no matter how small.

The cuff popped. He exhaled a slow breath. He worked his wrist free.

He waited a few moments longer, just to be safe.

Then he started stirring, as if waking from his sleep. When he opened his eyes, the officer barely spared him a glance.

“Officer, would you please give me some water?” he asked, his voice put-upon by a sleep-drunk roughness. “I’d do it myself, but the cuffs do make it a little difficult.”

The policeman sighed, rolling his eyes. He probably hated to be of any aid to someone like Steve. Understandable. Still, he did his job and approached the bed. From the pitcher at Steve’s bedside, the officer poured water into a paper cup and put a straw in. He leaned over Steve, guiding the straw to his face.

Steve drank.

As the man was focused on watching the patient drink, Steve slyly moved his hands out from under the covers.

Quick as a flash, he then moved.

One hand grabbed at the front of the officer’s uniform, clutching the navy fabric; the other clamped down over the officer’s mouth. He dropped the cup and water spilled. Steve lunged at him.

His teeth sank into the flesh of a throat. He bit down, jaws snapping shut like a bear trap around the leg of an unsuspecting hunter.

The officer tried to scream, to make any noise at all, but all that came was a wet gurgle as blood filled his airway.

Steve ripped the man’s throat out. Blood spurted and spattered, the carotid artery having been torn wide open. He chewed and swallowed what he could, but spat back out what he couldn’t. It wasn’t worth his time.

He let go of the body and let it slump to the floor. The man twitched and fought to hold on to life for a few moments, blood gushing out of the hole where his throat had once been. Steve pulled the needle out of his arm, disconnecting himself from his IV, then climbed out of his bed. He stood over his latest victim.

Hm... Even such a sloppy, rushed kill had its own tone of beauty. It was like looking at different art styles; his usual scenes could be compared to the baroque, while this piece was almost...minimalist. The pale white background of the floor, and the dark blue of the officer’s uniform contrasting the stark, shining, brilliant red of his blood.

So much said with so little.

No time to waste.

He picked the gun out of the officer’s holster. Fully loaded.

He took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be a long run, but it would be an unpleasant one. The soles of his feet were hurting worse by the step, there would probably be cops and security all through the hospital, and the drugs were still in his system.

But he had done his math.

At his top speed, it would take him around four minutes to get to the parking garage underneath the hospital, depending on which floor he was on. If he just didn’t let _anyone_  stop him or get in his way, he would get through it perfectly fine. The car was there, waiting for him. It was stocked with everything he needed until he got to where he was going. It was just a short little drive, then he’d be safe.

He stood by the door, gun in one hand, the other on the door handle. He focused his mind on the task at hand. He breathed, deep and slow, feeling the oxygen flush through his body. He was calm and relaxed. Nothing could stop him. Nothing would be _allowed_  to stop him. He would not _allow_  anything or anyone to get in his way.

He threw the door open and started running.

If he got through this, that would be the end of it all.

 

 

_**the end...** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> epilogue to come


	20. Epilogue: Tip Your Waiter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter mini-playlist: [Tip Your Waiter](https://open.spotify.com/user/mp4mscmi0hxe5eehqxjrzlutm/playlist/3JtguEnVk7KwbJbt9xcpPf?si=82iLyZIcQfWSDFH1Zw8l4Q)

It would be a few days before anyone started wondering about the car he abandoned in the parking lot. Even if they brought in any sort of authorities, Steve would be _far_  out of reach by then.

Steve walked quickly, but not _too_  quickly. Moving too fast only drew attention. He kept his head down. He had his hood up and his baseball cap drawn low, hiding the gauze wrapped around his head.

The water sounded amazing at it beat against the boats. He truly loved the sea.

It was midday, middle of the work week. There weren’t many people there besides him. Good. Fewer witnesses to speak up. The video surveillance was _bothersome,_  but then again, by the time anyone figured out he’d been there, he’d be long gone.

He finally reached his dock. And there it was, his escape. His beautiful _White Wolf._

He removed the tarps quickly and climbed into it from the dock. He packed the tarps away, then unlocked the door to let him inside the cabin.

A smile lit up his face.

_Bucky._

There he was, beautiful as ever. If a bit _smaller._

The jar sat, waiting, on the closest surface. Bucky smiled at him. Steve picked up the jar, the preserving fluids sloshing slightly.

“Sorry I took so long, sweetheart,” he said.

He pressed a kiss to the glass. Bucky’s murky eyes looked back at him.

Even with the staples and stitches that kept him smiling, Bucky was stunning. He was _mesmerizing._  God, Steve couldn’t even imagine what his life had been before he met Bucky. It must have been so boring. But with Bucky to light up his entire life, nothing seemed impossible.

“Let’s get going, shall we?” Steve asked, smiling. “Then we’ll be safe. I can tell you all about what’s been goin’ on while I was gone! Just you wait here!”

He carefully set the jar down on the counter again. He stopped for a moment, though, before hurrying on. God, Bucky truly was beautiful. His fingers ran down the glass, as though to caress Bucky’s face.

No time to waste!

Steve moved further into the guts of his vessel. His storage was packed to perfection. Food and money, the two most important things, he had in abundance. The rest he could pick up at whatever port he stopped at. He had his weapons too; some guns, as well as his vast collection of knives. He unpacked the knives for a moment, just to see how they looked. He had been worried they might get damaged as he moved them. He breathed a sigh of relief when they appeared unharmed.

Very good.

The plan was of course to not leave more bodies, but who was he to fight it if inspiration happened to strike?

He hurried back to the deck. He undid the mooring and pushed away from the dock.

He stood at the rudder, Bucky’s jar sitting on the dash with him.

They headed out. They’d round the Rockaway Peninsula to open water, then they’d be _free._

They would live happily ever after.

Together.

Beautiful as no one else could ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and like that, its over.
> 
> thank you for reading! <3


	21. Last Art of the Fic

 

 

This is the last art by [Chalenmimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi) and it isnt inspired by a particular scene, but more the _vibe_ of the entire fic!

 

Thank you so much for reading, and a HUGE thank you to the lovely artists I got to work with! Plesse, do check them out! Links below!

 

 

kittyandmulder:  
[tumblr](http://kittyandmulder.tumblr.com/)  
[deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/hillandclark)  
[ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder)

Chalenmimi:  
[ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi)  
[tumblr](http://chalenmimi-frenchtoast.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART for Laisse-moi Devenir L'ombre De Ton Ombre (Let Me Become the Shadow of Your Shadow)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906963) by [kittyandmulder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder), [TheVagabondBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVagabondBoy/pseuds/TheVagabondBoy)
  * [The hunt is finished](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17939069) by [Chalenmimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalenmimi/pseuds/Chalenmimi), [TheVagabondBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVagabondBoy/pseuds/TheVagabondBoy)




End file.
